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                          JOSEPH IN THE SNOW,

                                  AND

                            THE CLOCKMAKER.


                              BY AUERBACH.

                      TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.


                                VOL. I.


                                LONDON:
                       SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO.,
                   66, BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE.
                                 1861.






        LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
                           AND CHARING CROSS.






                          JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.




                          CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


Epitaph


                               CHAPTER I.

Is it not yet Morning?


                              CHAPTER II.

A Duet interrupted, and resumed


                              CHAPTER III.

A fierce Family


                              CHAPTER IV.

Martina's return Home


                               CHAPTER V.

A Day of Trouble


                              CHAPTER VI.

How a village Pastor was summoned to Court


                              CHAPTER VII.

The Home of Schilder-David


                             CHAPTER VIII.

Warm and snug in the Parsonage


                              CHAPTER IX.

Betrothal and Flight


                               CHAPTER X.

A Father in search of his Son


                              CHAPTER XI.

The Village Church deserted


                              CHAPTER XII.

Where is Joseph?


                              CHAPTER XIII.

A Troop of Hobgoblins


                              CHAPTER XIV.

Lost in the Forest


                              CHAPTER XV.

A Child seeking his Father


                              CHAPTER XVI.

Asleep and awake again in the Forest Mill


                             CHAPTER XVII.

A great Event in a small House


                             CHAPTER XVIII.

For the sake of the Child


                              CHAPTER XIX.

A Voice at Midnight


                              CHAPTER XX.

Daylight




                                EPITAPH.


     "Here lies a little child, lost in the forest deeps.--
        At midnight from the slumbering fold he strayed;
      But the lost lamb was found by One who never sleeps,
        And to his everlasting Father's fold conveyed."

                           *   *   *   *   *

These lines are written on a small cross, in the churchyard of the
village where the scene of the following simple story is laid. This
mournful inscription would have been applicable once more, if a
merciful Providence had not watched over Joseph. He retained however
through life the appellation of "Joseph in the Snow," for being lost in
the storm was the cause of his eventual good fortune, and of his rescue
from destitution and misery.






                          JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.

                           *   *   *   *   *




                               CHAPTER I.
                         IS IT NOT YET MORNING?

"Mother, is it morning yet?" asked the child, sitting up in bed.

"No, not nearly--why do you ask? Lie still, and go to sleep."

The child was quiet for a short time, but then repeated in a low
voice:--

"Mother, is it morning yet?"


"What is the matter, Joseph? do be quiet--don't disturb me, and go to
sleep. Say your prayers again, and then you will fall asleep."

The mother repeated the child's night prayers along with him, and then
said, "Now, good night, Joseph."

The boy was silent for a while; but on hearing his mother turn in bed,
he called to her in a whisper, "Mother!"

No answer.

"Mother! mother! mother!"

"What is it? what do you want?"

"Mother, is it not daylight yet?"

"You are a naughty child; very naughty; why do you persist in
disturbing my night's rest? I am weary enough, for I have been three
times in the forest to-day. If you wake me up again, the Holy Child
will bring you nothing to-morrow but a birch rod."

The boy sighed deeply, and said, "Good-night, then, till to-morrow,"
and wrapped himself up in the bed-clothes.

The room where this dialogue took place, was small and dark; an attic
under a thatched roof. The panes of glass in the little window were
frozen over, so that the bright moonlight could not penetrate through
them. The mother rose, and bent over the child; he was sleeping sound,
and lying quiet. The mother, however, could not go to sleep again,
though she had once more laid down and closed her eyes; for we can hear
her saying distinctly, "Even if he some day asks me to share his
home--and in spite of everything I firmly believe he will one day do
so--he cannot do otherwise--he must--but even then, how cruelly he has
slighted both me and our child! The years that are passed come no more:
we can have them but once in life. Oh! if I could but begin life again;
if I could only awake, and feel that it was not true, and that I had
never sinned so heavily! but the weight of one sin is a burden for
ever; no one can bear it for another. Can it be true that I was once so
gay and happy as people say? What could the child mean by calling out
three times, Is it morning yet? What is to happen in the course of this
day? Oh, Adam! Adam! you don't know all I suffer; if you did, you could
not sleep either."

The stream that ran past the house was frozen over, but in the silence
of the night, the gurgling of the water was heard, under the covering
of ice.

The thoughts of the wakeful woman followed the current of the brook, in
its distant flow, when, after traversing pathless valleys and deep
ravines, its course was checked by the forest mill; the waters rushing,
and foaming, and revolving over the mill wheels, just as the thoughts
of this watchful mother revolved dizzily on her sorrows at dead of
night. For within that mill dwells the dreaded object on whom the eyes
of Adam's parents were fixed. The forest miller's Tony had always been
thought a good-hearted, excellent girl, and yet now she seemed so
cruel:--what has the forest miller's daughter Tony to do with you? you
have no claim on her--but on him? on Adam? The sleepless girl clenched
her hands convulsively; she felt a stab in her heart, and said, in a
voice of anguish, "Can he ever be faithless to me? No, he could not;
but if he dared to desert me, I would not suffer it; I would go to
church with my little Joseph--but no--I would not take him with me--I
would go alone, and call out Adam's name. I could not endure it, and
then we should see if the clergyman would marry them."

The brook once more flows tranquilly through a quiet meadow; on its
banks some oaks and beeches droop their branches; but the hills are
covered thickly with lofty pines; the stream rushes again over rocks
into deep ravines: now it runs rapidly along. There lies the boundary
stone. "Now we are at home," had Adam once said, and yet this stone is
fully two miles from the Roettmannshof. In the Otterzwanger wood
belonging to it, lies a peaceful nook beside the river, overshadowed by
a spreading beech. The girl passes her cold hand over her feverish
cheek. There, under that leafy beech, she had first been noticed by
Adam. No one in the world would have believed that he could be so merry
and talkative, so kind and so gentle. It was a lovely summer's day: on
the previous evening there had been a violent storm; the thunder and
lightning had been so tremendous, that it seemed as if no tree in the
forest could escape scatheless. Just so is it here below: without in
the woods, and within in the houses, noise, strife, and wrangling, till
even murder seems not improbable; and yet the very next day everything
is as peaceful as before. It is indeed a charming summer morning that
we allude to; streams are flowing in their various channels with a
merry noise, hurrying on their course, as if knowing that they have
only a day to live, and are to be seen no more on the morrow. The birds
are singing cheerfully, and the girl washing at the brook can't help
doing the same; she must sing also, and why not? She is still quite
young, and free from care. She knows a variety of songs; she learned
them from her father, who was once the best and sweetest singer in the
village. Some men are descending the stream, as there is now water
enough to float a raft; and see, how skilfully they manage it! here is
Adam, the only son of the Roettmanns, on a solitary raft, which whirls
round and round with the current; but Adam knows what he is about, and
stands firm and erect; and when he comes close to the girl washing her
linen in the brook, he lets the raft swim away alone, and, placing the
oar firmly in the bed of the stream, he raises himself into the air,
and jumps on shore by one bold spring. The girl laughs, when she sees
the tall, powerful young man, with his high fisherman's boots, dangling
in the air, and yet her heart quails, when he alights close beside her.

"I have long wished to tell you how much I feel obliged to you," said
Adam.

"Why? for what?"

"For staying so long with my mother, and enduring so much."

"I am a servant, and receive wages, so I ought in return to bear a good
deal, and your mother has her own burden to bear, for she is angry with
our Heavenly Father, because your brother was killed by a falling tree.
She has no love either for God or her fellow-creatures, but she only
makes herself miserable."

Adam looked at her kindly; but suddenly he lifted up his oar abruptly,
exclaiming, "I must be off: good bye!" He sprang into the brook, making
the water splash above his head, pushing the raft, which had been
stopped by a bend in the stream, vigorously forward into the centre of
the current. Martina looked after him in astonishment. What is the
matter with Adam? He is quickly out of sight, and is presently heard
shouting at a distance, with the other bargemen, and then all is still
again.

For weeks Adam never spoke one word to Martina, indeed he scarcely
seemed to notice her--but in autumn--both cows and oxen pasture at that
season in the meadows--Martina was passing along, and descending the
hill--there being no spring close to the house on the level ground, the
water for drinking must be fetched from half way down the hill--when,
suddenly, she saw a bull erect its head and begin to paw the ground. It
was a fine sight to see the heavy animal tossing its horns, but the
herdboy called out, "Save yourself, Martina, or you will be tossed by
the bull."

Martina uttered a shrill scream, and turned to run away, hiding her
face, but fell down. She could hear the snorting animal close to her,
when, all at once, he lay stretched on the ground, bellowing. Adam had
rushed up, seized the animal by the horns, and held down his head, till
some of the farm-servants came up, and helped to bind him.

Martina is saved, but Adam only said, "The next time that you go
through the meadow, don't wear a scarlet handkerchief on your head."

Adam was covered with blood, and Martina asked, "For heaven's sake tell
me, have you been hurt by the bull?"


"Oh, pray make no fuss, it is nothing; the bull was bleeding at the
mouth, and so he sprinkled me with blood. Go now, and fetch the water;"
so saying, he turned away, and went to a pond to wash off the blood.

Not till she had reached the well did Martina become fully alive to the
danger she had escaped. She felt the deadly peril she had been in, and
from which Adam had rescued her. As she wept, admiration mingled with
her tears, and heartfelt gratitude to the bold and intrepid young man.
At dinner-time she heard his mother say to Adam, "You are the most
silly, good-for-nothing creature in the world, to go and risk your
life, to save that of a stupid maid."

"I'll never do it again," answered Adam.

"I rather think," said his father, with a smile, "that you are not
likely to do such a thing twice, as to hold down a bull by the horns
and yet to escape alive; it's a pity no one saw you, for it is a feat
the whole neighbourhood would have talked about."

From this period Adam always noticed Martina by a kind nod, but never
spoke a single word to her. He seemed only to be pleased, that she had
given him an opportunity to perform a genuine Roettmann's exploit.

Shortly after, Martina was again washing at the brook, when Adam once
more stood before her: "Are you quite recovered from your fright?" said
he.

"No; my limbs still tremble from the terrible fear I felt, but as long
as I live I will thank you for having----"


"Pray don't talk about it. The animal was not vicious--no animal
is naturally so, neither horse nor ox, if not persecuted when
young by being foolishly hunted and cruelly goaded, and thus made
bad-tempered--then, at last, they are so with a vengeance--but--tell
me--don't you know all, and--don't you like me as much as I like you?"

He could not say much, but there was infinite tenderness in his eyes,
and subdued but deep love, as he looked at Martina and laid his hand on
her shoulder; and no man would have believed that the rough stalwart
Adam could have been so loving and gentle.

They were standing silently under the spreading beech, and Martina
gazing up at the bright rays of sunshine darting through the leaves--

"Look how beautiful this tree is!" said she.

"A very useless one," said Adam; "a vast number of branches, but a poor
trunk."

"I was not thinking of that, but see how it shines and glitters all
green and gold."

"You are right; it is beautiful," said Adam, and his glance was
unusually mild as the rays of the sun sportively flickered on his stern
embrowned features.

For the first time it seemed to occur to him, that a tree could be
looked at in any other light than that of its marketable value.

And as often as Martina thought of the bright sunshine she had seen
through the foliage of the beech, she felt as if these sunny rays were
still shining on her, and were never to cease shining.

Adam, seizing Martina's hand, said, as if he intended a solemn
asseveration:--

"This tree shall never be cut down; it shall never be felled by me till
our wedding; or rather, it shall always remain where it is, and listen
to the merry music of our bridal procession as it passes along.
Martina, give me something; have you nothing you could give me?"

"I am poor and have nothing to give away."

"I see something I should like to have--will you give it to me?"

"Yes! what is it? whatever you like."

"I see your name embroidered on your neckerchief; tear out the piece
and give it to me."

"Gladly!" she turned away, and tore out the piece of muslin where her
name was marked, and gave it to him.

"I give you nothing," said he, "but look round, so far as you can see,
all, all, is yours."

At this speech, proving how rich Adam was, and how poor Martina, she
felt very sorrowful, but Adam still grasped her hand, so every other
feeling was absorbed in love for him.

The love which had taken possession of both, was an overpowering,
headlong, wild passion and quickly succeeded by grief and misery.

For the first time in his life, Adam was sent with a raft, down the
Rhine, to Holland, and during his absence Martina was driven out of the
house in shame and disgrace....

These were the joyous and sorrowful events of the past, that once more
floated before the eyes of Martina in her garret.

She hid her face in the pillow--the cocks in the village began to crow,
as it was now past midnight.

"That is the new-fashioned bird crowing, that Haespele lately bought.
How hoarse and loud the long-legged creature crows! Our own home birds
have a much more cheerful cry: but Haespele is an excellent man, and so
kind and good to my boy;--he meant to do me a kindness when he once
said to me, 'Martina, in my eyes you are a widow, and a worthy
woman'--Yes, said I, but my husband is not dead; I grieve that you like
me, as I cannot marry you--no! such a thought is far from my heart."

Martina could not close her eyes, but lay anxiously awaiting the dawn
of day--sometimes sleep seemed about to take compassion on her, but
scarcely had she closed her eyes, than she started up again--she
thought she heard the voice of Adam's mother, the stormy Roettmaennin,
and saw her sharp sarcastic face, and Martina whispered sadly to
herself:--"Oh! when will it be light!"




                              CHAPTER II.
                    A DUET INTERRUPTED, AND RESUMED.


At the very same hour that the child in the attic woke up and was so
restless, two candles and a lamp were burning in the sitting-room of
the parsonage, and three people were seated comfortably at a round
table: these were the clergyman, his wife, and her brother, a young
farmer. The room was pleasantly warm, and in the pauses of the
conversation, the hissing of some apples roasting on the stove was
heard, and the kettle, on the top of the stove, put in its word too, as
if it wished to say that it had good material ready for a glass of hot
punch. The worthy pastor, who seldom smoked, nevertheless possessed the
talent of enjoying his pipe with any guest who arrived; this did not,
however, make him neglect his snuff-box, and whenever he took a
pinch himself, he offered one to his brother-in-law, who invariably
refused it politely. The pastor gazed with evident satisfaction
at his brother-in-law; and his wife occasionally looked up from her
work--a gift to her husband for the Christmas of the ensuing day--and
glanced tenderly at her brother.

"A famous idea of yours," repeated the pastor, while his delicate face,
his well formed lips, bright blue eyes, and lofty intellectual
forehead, assumed an expression of even greater benevolence than
usual--"a famous idea indeed, to get leave of absence to spend the
holidays with us, but," added he, smiling and glancing at the gun
leaning against the wall in a corner, "your fire-arms will not profit
you much here, unless, indeed, you have the good fortune to hit the
wolf, who has been lately seen prowling about in the wood."

"I have neither come to visit you solely from the wish to see you, nor
with the idea of sport," answered the young farmer, in a deep and manly
voice, "my chief motive is to persuade you, my dear brother-in-law, to
withdraw your application for the pastorate in the Odenwald, and to
delay moving until there is a vacant Cure either near the capital, or
in it. My uncle Zettler, who is now Consistorial President, has
promised to secure the first vacant charge for you."

"Impossible! Both Lina and I should certainly have liked to be in the
vicinity of our parents, and I have often an eager thirst for good
music, but I am a bad hand at the new orthodoxy of the day, and the
eager discussions as to whether a sermon is according to strict church
principles. Among my fellow-workers in the Church, there is an
incessant feverish anxiety for the souls of their mutual parishioners,
inducing them to exchange religious exhortations, which appears to me a
very vainglorious system. It is with that, like education; the less
teaching parents bestow on their children, the more incessantly they
talk on the subject. Live a good life, and a pious one, and you can
train up both your children and your parishioners, without possessing
much learning, and without such endless wear and tear of care and
anxiety. I know that I teach a pure faith so far as my ability goes,
and moreover, I am averse to all innovations. We must grow old along
with those on whom we wish to impress our doctrines. In a well
organized government, a man remains in the same situation, but is
gradually promoted in his office. I only applied for the vacant Cure in
the Odenwald because I feel that I am becoming too old for the
dissensions and strife which prevail here, and also because I have not
the power to prevent a piece of cruelty at which my heart revolts--but
now, let us sing."

He rose, went to the piano, and began the symphony of his favourite
melody, and his wife and her young brother sang, with well taught
voices, the duet from Titus--"Joy and sorrow let us share."

The two voices, blending harmoniously in this impressive melody, were
like friendly hands clasped, or a cordial embrace.

While they were singing, a sound like the cracking of a whip seemed to
ascend from the road before the house, but they did not pay much
attention to it, mutually agreeing that it must be a delusion on their
part. Now, however, that the song was at an end, the sound of a
carriage and the loud cracking of a whip were distinctly heard. The
pastor's wife opened the window, and putting out her head, into the
dark night air, called out "Is any one there?"

"Yes, indeed," answered a gruff voice.

She closed the window quickly, for a current of biting icy air rushed
in and made the singer's cheeks all in a glow. Her brother wished to
look out also to see who it was, but his anxious sister held him back,
as he was so heated by singing. She sent the maid down, and in the mean
time, bewailed the possibility of her husband being, perhaps, obliged
to go out on such a night.

The maid quickly returned, saying that a sledge had come from
Roettmann's godless old wife, who desired that the clergyman should come
to her immediately.

"Is Adam here, or a servant?" asked the pastor.

"A servant."

"Tell him to come in, and to take something warm till I am ready."

His wife implored him not to expose his life to danger for the sake of
such a wicked old dragon: even by daylight it was dangerous at this
time of year to drive to Roettmann's house, and how much worse by night!

"If a doctor must go to attend his patient, in spite of wind and
weather, how much more am I bound to do so!" answered the pastor.

The servant came into the room, and the pastor gave him a glass of
punch saying, "Is your mistress dangerously ill?"

"No, not so bad exactly--at least she can still scold and curse
bravely."

The pastor's wife entreated him afresh, at least to wait till it was
daylight, saying she would take the responsibility on herself, if the
formidable Roettmaennin left the world without spiritual aid; but she
seemed well aware that her persuasions would be quite unavailing, for
while eagerly entreating him to remain, she was pouring some kirsch
into a straw flask, and having fetched a large sheepskin cloak, she
placed the flask in one of its pockets. The young farmer wished to go
with his brother-in-law, but he declined, saying, as he went out, "Pray
stay at home, and go to bed early: if you were to go with me you would
probably become hoarse, and I hope we shall sing a great deal together
while the holidays last--that beautiful melody of Mozart's will
accompany me on the way."

The brother and sister, however, went together to the front of the
house, where the pastor got into the sledge; his wife wrapping his feet
closely in a large woollen rug, and saying reproachfully to the driver,
"Why did not you bring a carriage instead of a sledge?"

"Because the snow is quite deep at our house."

"That is just like you all up there; you never think of how things are
elsewhere, or whether the jolting of these frozen and rough roads may
not break people's limbs. Drive slow as far as Harzeneck: be very
careful, Otto: pray get out and walk up the hill at Otterzwang. But
perhaps you had better sit still, for you might catch cold: may Heaven
protect you!"

"Good night!" said her husband, and his voice sounded quite hollow from
under all his mufflings: the horses trotted off with the sledge, which
was heard jolting and rumbling all along the village. The brother and
sister then went back into the house.

"I can't tell you how much good it does me to see and to hear your
husband again," said the young man to his sister, when they were once
more in the sitting-room. "It seems to me, that, as he becomes older,
his pure and pious nature becomes more developed--or does this proceed
from my being now better able to appreciate him?"

His sister smiled, and said, "You are certainly sincerely attached to
my husband, but you cannot fully know his pure soul and pious heart;
people may say he is not sufficiently observant of church forms and
ceremonies, but he is a church in himself; piety prevails through his
example; he needs do no more than simply live here, to exercise a
beneficial influence; his gentle disposition, his untiring love and
strict integrity, cause all those who witness his daily life to become
good and pious: and his style of preaching is just the same; his soul
is in every phrase; every word is sound grain; he is well treated by
all, and never meets with rudeness or incivility. The painter
Schwarzmann, near this, who once stayed a week with us, and saw the
respectful behaviour of the rude peasantry towards him, said a good
thing on the subject: 'Our Pastor seems to prevail on every man, to
think in pure German in his presence, and not in patois.' Formerly it
used to distress me very much, to think that such a man was destined to
pass his life in this obscure place, among a set of illiterate
peasants; but I have since that time learned that the highest
cultivation of intellect, which is after all as simple as the Bible
itself, is here in its right and fitting place."

It would not be easy to say which was the greatest--the enthusiasm with
which the sister spoke, or that of the brother in listening to her; so
difficult is it to determine, whether a good heart rejoices most in
contemplating perfect felicity, or in possessing it. There is a kind of
happiness attainable, not by one only, but by all who are capable of
enjoying it, and that is the appreciation and love of a pure and pious
heart.

"I know where he is now," continued the sister, fixing her eyes as if
on some distant object; "he has passed the great elm, and by this time
they are driving on to Harzeneck, where there is always a bitter blast.
Wrap yourself well up; I believe you will convert that fierce hard
woman at last; I do believe you will, for what is there you cannot do?
and I believe you will yet marry Adam to Martina, and then we shall
remain happily where we are."

The brother scarcely liked to interrupt his sister's reverie, but at
last he asked, "Who is the fierce Roettmaennin, and who are Adam and
Martina?"

"Sit down here beside me, and I will tell you. I could not sleep if I
were to go to bed, till I know that Otto is under shelter."




                              CHAPTER III.
                         THE FIERCE ROeTTMAeNNER.


"There is a fierce, savage race of men in these mountains, who are
almost fiends. Many a strange tale is told of these wild Roettmaenner."

"Let me hear them."

"They are great rough boors, and they pride themselves on the stories
related for generations back of their prodigious strength, and as they
are wealthy, they can do pretty much what they please. The father of
the Roettmann, whose wife Otto is gone to-night to visit, is reported to
have had so powerful a voice, that once when he shouted to a forester,
the man staggered back. His chief pleasure consisted in rolling up into
balls, the tin plates used at dinner at different inns. The present
Roettmann, when he went to a dance, was in the habit of stuffing into
his long pockets a dozen of the heavy iron axes, used for splitting
wood, called _Speidel_ by the country people, so that every one got out
of his way, and left him ample space to dance. His greatest delight was
to dance for twenty-four hours without stopping; this was only
amusement to him, and in the pauses between the dances, he drank quart
after quart of wine unceasingly. In order to ascertain, however, how
much he had drunk, and what he had to pay, he tore off a button each
time, first off his red waistcoat, and then off his coat, and redeemed
them at the end of the evening from the landlord. His old father, with
the stentorian voice, once forbad him to remain all day at a wedding at
Wenger, but, on the contrary, enjoined on him to mow down a grass
meadow in the valley of Otterzwang. The Roettmaenner have always enforced
the strictest discipline among themselves. The obedient son followed
his father's injunctions. Danced like mad all night, and in the
morning, the loud voiced father, coming into the meadow, heard music,
'What is that? a man mowing, and he looks so strange?' The father comes
nearer, sees his son mowing busily according to his orders, but
carrying a basket on his back, and in the basket a fiddler, playing
indefatigably, till the meadow was mown from end to end, and then he
danced back to the Wenger wedding with the fiddler on his back. There
is a proverb, that anything may be stolen, except a mill-stone
and a bar of red-hot iron; but Speidel-Roettmann did once steal
a mill-stone, or at least displace it. Wishing to play a trick to the
forest-miller, he rolled the mill-stone one night half-way up the hill.
Speidel-Roettmann had two sons, Vincent and Adam; the eldest, Vincent,
was not particularly strong, but as sharp and spiteful as a lynx; a
quality he inherited from his mother, for the Roettmanns, though untamed
and fierce, are not malicious. It seems that Vincent tormented the
wood-cutters like a slave-driver. One day he was killed by the falling
of a tree. It was said, and the former clergyman always declared it was
so, that the wood-cutters had killed him on purpose. Since that day the
mother, who never, was of a kindly nature, has become a perfect dragon,
and would gladly poison every one. She is the only person who cordially
hates my husband, for she wished him to question closely every dying
peasant to whom he might be summoned, whether he had anything to
confess with regard to Vincent's murder. The tree that caused Vincent's
death lay long untouched in the wood, but one day the Roettmaennin gave
orders that its branches should be lopped off. She hid herself,
unperceived by the wood cutters, in order to watch them, and to listen
to all they said, but she got no information. Speidel-Roettmann, as the
trunk was the finest tree in the forest, wished to send it floating
down the Rhine, for he said,--'a tree is a tree, and money is money;
why should the tree be left to rot on the ground, because it chanced to
cause Vincent's death?' His wife, however, was of a different opinion.
She collected the branches into a great heap, to which she set fire,
and burned the clothes of the dead man in it, shouting out, 'May those
who murdered my Vincent, burn hereafter like these clothes in this
bonfire!' Six horses and ten oxen tried to drag the tree into the
courtyard of the house, but they could only move it a little way, for
the roads are not good enough to admit of so huge a tree being dragged
up hill. It was, therefore, sawn into three pieces, and these three
monstrous logs are still lying in the court, close to the door. The
Roettmaennin always declares that the tree is waiting till a gallows and
a funeral pile are required, to hang and to burn the murderer of her
Vincent. She often sits at the window, muttering to the logs of wood,
as if telling them some secret; and when she sees any stranger tumble
over them, she laughs with delight. She also caused a group of figures
to be erected, in memory of the murdered man, close to the footpath
which leads down from Hohlzobel to the forest mill, though this is a
custom peculiar to Catholics alone in our neighbourhood. Yonder, deep
in the centre of the wood, Vincent met his death. The only son left is
Adam, and she uses him worse than a step-child; it is said, that she
beats him as if he were still a child, and he makes no resistance,
though he has already proved that he is a genuine Roettmann, and won a
singular title, for he is known in the whole country as _The Horse_. He
went once to get his horse shod by the smith, whom he found bargaining
with a Briesgau peasant about the exchange of a horse: the horse was
harnessed to a large two-wheeled waggon, laden with sacks of peas. The
Briesgau peasant said: 'There is not such a horse in the world, he is
drawing a load that would require three common horses to draw.'

"'Oh! ho!' exclaimed Adam, who was standing by, in so loud and gruff a
voice that the Briesgauer tumbled right over his load, but luckily fell
against his horse. 'Oh! ho! I will make you a bet that I carry the
waggon and the peas in three loads to the Crown inn yonder. Will you
conclude the bargain, if I succeed in doing this?'

"'I will--done!' said the peasant.

"The horse was taken out of the waggon, Adam filled a large counterpane
with the peas and carried them to the inn, and then, seizing the
framework of the cart, he carried it in the same way to its
destination; and, finally, took the two great wheels on his shoulders,
and deposited them in the inn-yard: 'Which is the strongest, your horse
or I?' asked he of the peasant; and this is why he is called _The
Horse_.

"The manner in which Speidel-Roettmann made known his son's
extraordinary feat of strength shows his vainglorious, boasting
disposition: he is far from being a bad man, only a swaggerer of the
first class. The day after Adam's bet there was a fair in the town, and
the smith from our village met Speidel-Roettmann at an inn, and related
the circumstances I have told you. Speidel-Roettmann said, 'I will give
you a bottle of the best wine in this cellar, if you will go down to
the street, and shout to me up at the window the story you have just
told me;' and so he did. Speidel-Roettmann leant at his ease on the
window-cushion, and all the people listened in amazement to the story
the smith was shouting out. Speidel-Roettmann is very fond of his son,
and very proud of him, but he dare not venture to show this before his
wife, more especially for the last seven years.

"Yonder, above the ford--we can see the cottage from our window--lives
a Schilder, or wood-turner, nicknamed Schilder-David. He is a worthy
man, though one of the poorest in the village, but he would rather
starve than accept of assistance from any one. Moreover, he is a great
searcher of Holy Writ. Light is seen later in his cottage than in any
other house in the village, and that is very significant for so poor a
man. He has a Bible, that he has read through sixteen times, from the
first syllable to the last, both of the Old and the New Testament. I
saw the Bible once, and the leaves looked very much crumpled and worn,
for David always reads with four fingers on the page. On the first leaf
of the Bible he regularly marks down the date when he begins to read it
afresh, and the day when he has read it through. The longest period is
rather more than two years; three times, however, he read it from
beginning to end within the year; that was when his three daughters
emigrated; another time, when his hand was so severely injured, that it
was thought it must be amputated; and, last of all, the year in which
his grandson Joseph was born. In his youth, he is said to have been
very jovial and merry, and he knew every kind of song, and once, by his
singing, he got a stock of firewood. On one occasion, he came to the
father of Speidel-Roettmann to buy wood: Old Roettmann, being in good
humour, said, 'David, for every song you sing me I will give you a
Klaft or bundle of wood, and I will send it to your house for you--so,
that's a bargain.' David sung so many songs, that he sung two cartloads
of wood into his house; therefore, he is called Klafter-David--but he
does not like to be reminded of that name now-a-days.

"The wife of Schilder-David is one of those persons whose nature it is
to sleep away the greater part of their lives; who walk about and
regularly finish their work, but not a single word is ever said about
them, either for good or evil. We have here an unusual number of such
persons. Moreover, the wife of Schilder-David has been for some years
almost stone-deaf. They had five daughters, all straight, tall girls,
and even when they were children, stout and active. Schilder-David
always said, 'they are for the sea,' which meant emigrating to America;
and, indeed, four of his daughters are gone to America, two with their
husbands, and two unmarried, but they married there soon after their
arrival; one, died lately, but the other is well to do in the world,
and yet Schilder-David is constantly longing to see his children, and
often says--'That America is a new species of dragon that robs us of
our children.' The best thing he could do, would be to emigrate
himself, for his lot here is hard enough, but formerly he could not
make up his mind, and now it is impossible for him to go.

"His youngest daughter, Martina, was the especial pride of her father,
for she was always at the head of the school. You have no idea what a
character that gives a child in a village; a girl, especially, acquires
a certain degree of pride in consequence, and is respected by others,
and looked up to, even when her school years are over. She was a good,
clever child. When she came here to be prepared for her confirmation,
she always rubbed her shoes carefully on the mat, and persuaded the
other children to do the same, in order not to soil the stairs or the
rooms, and she and her companions insisted on sweeping out the church
themselves, before the day of Confirmation. When she stood before the
altar, she looked much older than her years; I never saw a prettier
creature, and piety encircled her head like a halo. She often came to
the parsonage to see us. My husband was particularly fond of the child,
and he told me that on the day after the confirmation he met Martina in
the fields, and she said that she felt now as if she had left her home;
and indeed, shortly afterwards she was sent away from her parents'
house. She was just sixteen when she entered into the service of the
Roettmanns. They give good wages, and must do so, because no one can
stay more than a year with that ill-tempered, fierce woman. Martina,
however, remained with them for two years,----"

The pastor's wife was interrupted in her narrative by a strange echo of
tinkling of bells in the village.

"What is that?" asked Edward.

"It is the troop of donkeys from the forest mill. The public road to
the mill is very broad, but the donkeys are conveying corn and flour
along the narrow footpaths, up and down the hills. I should like to
have sent a message to Tony by the miller's man, but now it is too
late."

Not till after repeated entreaties on the part of her brother, did his
sister recommence her story.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                         MARTINA'S RETURN HOME.

"On the Saturday afternoon of a midsummer's day a woman was crouching
behind a rock, overhanging that part of the stream where there is a
black whirlpool. The sempstress Leegart chanced to be passing by on her
way home from the forest mill, wishing to see the spot where she once
lost her way.

"Leegart is full of superstition, though no one says more against it
than she does. When on that Saturday she arrived at the rock and saw
the figure cowering down behind it, she gave a loud scream. 'What can
that be crouching in the bright light like a spectre? It is Martina!'
She rose, and looking piteously at Leegart, told her that she had
intended to drown herself, but that she must live for her child's sake;
but when it was born she resolved to die. Leegart quickly promised to
be godmother, for the belief hereabouts is, that a child for whom a
godmother is promised before its birth, comes happily into the world,
and even if it dies it is sure to be happy. Leegart never ceased
talking to Martina, and striving to console her, till at last she
persuaded her to go with her to the village.

"This took place in the afternoon; I was sitting with my husband in the
garden, when suddenly we heard from the opposite side of the river, a
shrill scream of agony that seemed to pierce our ears; and scarcely had
we hurried out of the arbour than Leegart rushed up to us as pale as
death, and said: 'Herr Pastor, for God's sake lose not a moment in
going to Schilder-David's, for he will murder Martina, I fear.'

"I wished to go with my husband, but he told me to stay where I was,
and went himself as quickly as possible. Leegart nearly swooned away,
but luckily there was still a cup of coffee to spare, and when it had
revived her she told me that Martina had come home in shame and
disgrace. When David, who was cutting, wood before his door, saw her,
and heard the sad truth, he raised his axe with the intention of
splitting his daughter's skull. The neighbours, however, rushed up to
him in time to snatch the axe from him, but he was still standing on
the threshold of his door, threatening to strangle Martina if she
attempted to come under his roof. Martina fell down on the doorstep;
some women carried her into the house, and when she revived and saw her
confirmation certificate hanging on the wall of the room framed under
glass, she uttered such a loud, piercing scream, that we had heard it
even at this distance; and she again relapsed into a dead faint. At
last she was restored, but David called out, 'Don't bring her to life
again, for out she shall go as soon as she can move. Oh Lord, strike me
blind! accursed be my eyes! America deprived me of my other children,
and now! now!' ... He made a rush at Martina; the neighbours, however,
held him back, and Leegart hurried away to call my husband. We waited
long before my husband came back. He brought David with him, supporting
him on his arm, for David was groping like a blind man; he had pressed
down his hat over his eyes, and kept saying, 'Herr Pastor, shut me
up--do! for I am no longer master of myself--my child, my best, my only
child. She was a crown to me, as her confirmation said, and now----Oh,
Heavenly Father, why is it Thy will thus to try me? It was not to be. I
was not to reach the grave without this severe burden. Oh, Herr Pastor,
to see a child even enjoy its food seems more pleasant than to do so
yourself. Oh! how long do we tend our little child, and care for it,
and rejoice in its health and strength, and hearing it say good and
pleasant words; and glad when it comes from school and has learnt
something useful; glad when it gathers wood, and sings and is
merry--and then comes a man, and lays waste all this happiness! My
other children live, but they are emigrants, and are no good to me; my
Martina stayed at home, she is still before my eyes, but is worse than
dead. When a child is virtuous we are doubly happy, but a wicked child
can make a father not only doubly, but a thousandfold miserable. I keep
racking my brain and I cannot, cannot find out where my fault has been,
and yet I must be to blame, and now my good name----'Here he saw me,
and almost sinking down he exclaimed with a burst of convulsive sobs,
'Frau Pastorin, you always loved her well; she has given me my death
blow--I feel it.'

"He could evidently scarcely sustain himself, we brought him into the
house, and there he remained nearly unconscious for more than an hour;
he covered his face with his hands, and large tears were seen trickling
down through his fingers.

"At last he rose, and standing erect by a strong effort, he said:

"'May God reward you, Herr Pastor. Here is my hand; may I die an evil
death if I harm my Martina----'here he was interrupted by his tears,
which flowed afresh at this name--'if my Martina suffers through me
either by word or deed. God has punished me through her; I must,
indeed, be a miserable sinner. I was too proud of my children, and more
especially of her, and she is now wretched enough; I will sin against
fatherly love no more.'

"My husband wished to go home with him, but he firmly declined this.

"'I must learn to pass along the street alone with this stain of shame.
I have been too proud. My head is bowed down till the hour when I
descend into the grave. A thousand thanks, Herr Pastor. May God reward
you!'

"The man whose gait had been hitherto so proud and erect, now crept
home a miserable object. When he was gone my husband related to me the
frightful scene he had witnessed. Those present, however, told me
afterwards that my husband had shown the most unexampled patience and
gentleness towards David, who was in a state of raging fury, exclaiming
frantically: 'I am like Job. Oh God! strike me dumb, in order that I
may no longer curse myself and the whole world--but there is no
justice, none in heaven, and none on earth.'

"My husband at length succeeded in pacifying him, but when David was at
last gone, I never saw my husband so worn out and exhausted as on that
occasion.

"Leegart kept her promise, and was godmother to little Joseph; and his
father, Adam Roettmann, was also present at his baptism.

"Adam had a fine life of it at home, for daring to go to the village,
and from that time he was watched, and imprisoned like a malefactor,
the old Roettmaennin having complaisant spies every where in her pay, for
she does not grudge money for her own purposes.

"Schilder-David had always been a regular church goer, but after the
unwished for birth of his grandson he was two months without going to
church; when he heard the bells ringing for divine service, he never
failed to lament afresh over his dishonour, which prevented him being
able to go to church; but when no one was looking, he liked to carry
his grandchild about the room. The boy seemed to have won all his love;
he had the child constantly in his arms, and watched over him like a
mother. On Sundays and holidays he was to be seen for hours beside the
garden hedge yonder; grandfather and grandson passing into the fields,
and standing watching the waterfall; indeed the old man gave up smoking
to please the child, whereas formerly he never moved without a pipe in
his mouth; and when the boy could run alone, he was his constant
companion, and used to lead him by the hand. If the boy is playing with
other children and sees his grandfather, he runs away from all his
games, and cannot be prevailed on to leave his grandfather's side.
Indeed, if a child could be so easily spoilt, David would have ruined
his grandson by his vanity, for his only pleasure in life is hearing
praise of the boy; he is constantly repeating all the wise sayings of
little Joseph, and boasting of how cleverly the boy can talk. Although
David is very conscientious, still he is not at all aware how many
things he invents for the child which he never uttered, and then he
usually winds up by saying, 'Wait till the boy is twenty years older,
and then the whole country will talk of my Joseph, and all he knows.'

"I lately heard an instance of the strange ideas of this singular boy.
On the same day, a child died in this neighbourhood, and one was born;
and little Joseph said: 'Grandfather, isn't it true that when we are
born, we fall asleep in Heaven, and awake on earth; and when we die, we
fall asleep on earth, and awake in Heaven?'

"Little Joseph is also generally present when his grandfather is
talking with his neighbours, so in this way he hears of all the various
events and quarrels in the village, and knows all its secret history."

"Why do you say nothing of Martina?" interrupted Edward.

"There is very little to relate about her; she lives a quiet but busy
life; ready to lend her aid to any family in sorrow or in need; she
talks very little, and is devoted with the most tender love to her
father, and he repays her by the love he shows towards little Joseph."

"And the father of the boy, Adam? what of him?"

"He also lives very retired, and, as I told you, he is almost kept a
prisoner at home by his parents. He makes no resistance, and seems to
think he has made all the reparation in his power, by uniformly
declaring that, if he is not allowed to marry Martina, he will never
marry at all. The parents anxiously strive to induce Martina to give
him up. Very tempting offers have been made to her, and very
respectable wooers have come forward, whom old Roettmann has offered to
provide with a good sum of money, but she will not for a moment listen
to such proposals, and her invariable answer is, 'I could easily get a
good husband, but my Joseph can get no other father than Adam, even if
he wished it.' A cousin of Martina's, a shoemaker, who is very well
off, and a bachelor, appears resolved not to marry until he is quite
sure that Martina will not have him. He is called in the village
Haespele, and indeed I do not know his real name. On festival nights he
helps the girls to wind off the yarn that they have spun, on hasps, and
therefore he has got the nickname of Haespele. He is a goodnatured
creature, and every year consecutively, plays the part of the carnival
Merryandrew. Wherever he goes, the whole year through, people expect
him to play the buffoon, which he is quite willing to do; his
appearance and manners are so droll, that it is scarcely possible to
know when he is in jest, or when in earnest; particularly as he has a
very red nose, which looks just as if it was painted. He is sincerely
attached to Martina, who has also a great regard for him, but only the
kind of liking that all the other girls in the village have; she will
never marry him; indeed, no one thinks that any one would marry
Haespele.----God be praised!" said the Pastorin, breaking off her story,
"my husband must be by this time under shelter of the Roettmanns' roof,
if no accident has occurred--and God forbid there should! It would be
the most precious Christmas boon to me, the most cheering commemoration
of this holy season, if my husband could soften the Roettmaennin's hard
heart; her husband, Speidel-Roettmann, would soon come round then: in
that case I think there is little doubt, that we should remain here,
and gladly too. For it was the sad story of Martina and Adam which at
last turned the scale, and made my husband resolve to quit this parish.
These hard hearted Roettmaenner are never at rest, and have at last
contrived that everything should be prepared tomorrow for the betrothal
of Adam with Tony, the daughter of the Forest Miller. She lately had a
young stepmother placed over her, and is resolved to leave home, no
matter whither. She is the only girl of respectable family who would
accept Adam. The Forest Miller and Roettmann, these two families are the
most highly respected; or what is the same thing nearly, the richest,
in the whole district. I must say that, for my part, I could not bear
to see Adam go to church with the Forest Miller's Tony. It is hard on
my husband to stand in his pulpit, and to pour out his inmost heart
before his congregation, and to preach faith, and piety, and goodness,
and to know, that there are people sitting even in the best pews in the
church, whom he can't help seeing, and to whom all he says appears but
empty words.

"Listen! the watchman is calling twelve. Otto is certainly arrived by
this time, and I feel sure he will do good. Come, let us go to rest
also."




                               CHAPTER V.
                           A DAY OF TROUBLE.


The whole night through, Martina continued as restless as if she knew
by intuition that, at this very time, a kind and honest heart had
revived the sad story of her life. She was full of impatience, and felt
as if she must rush out into the world, in order suddenly to change the
whole course of her life--as if it were in her power to accomplish
this! The cocks crowed more loudly, and occasionally a cow was heard
lowing, and a dog barking. Surely day would soon dawn now.

Martina rose, and lighted the stove, and made a good fire on the hearth
besides. She was anxious that the soup for breakfast should be
particularly good today, for the sempstress, Leegart, was to arrive
early, as little Joseph was to get a new green jacket of Manchester
cloth. A slate was lying on the table, on which little Joseph had on
the previous evening drawn a gigantic figure of a man, formidable to be
seen, and yet the child had said "Look! that is my father." Martina
could not help thinking this strange, as she rubbed out the figure. She
wished she could as easily efface from the child's memory what she had
told him the night before when he was going to sleep, about his father,
and that he was to come this very day; that was probably why the child
during the night had called out three times, "Is it morning yet?"
Martina gazed long at the blazing fire, and half unconsciously sung:--

      Faithful love my bosom fills,--
        Can true love ever fade?
      Oh! what a smile that heart must wear
        That never was betrayed!

      I cannot brook the heedless gaze
        Of them that haunt the busy mart;
      And tears come welling to my eyes,
        Up from the fountains of my heart.

When Martina, with the pitcher in her hand, opened the door, a strong
blast of bitter cold wind rushed in; so she wrapped herself more
closely: in the red shawl, with which she had covered her head and her
throat, and went along to the well. The day was biting cold, and the
water pipes all frozen; indeed there was no water left unfrozen, except
in the deep well close to the church. A crowd of women and girls were
standing round the well, and when the pitchers were too full, so that
the water ran over, there was a great outcry, for the water froze so
quickly that it made the ground like slippery ice. The early sun peeped
forth for a minute into the valley, but apparently the sight did not
please him, for he quickly disappeared again behind the clouds. The
fields and meadows were glittering brightly with morning hoarfrost, a
chilling sight; for everything freezes quickly when without a
sheltering cover of snow. A thick surface of snow, however, lay on the
hills.

"God be praised; you will see that these clouds will bring honest snow
at last, today!"

"A blessing for the fields, for it is a sorrow to see them so yellow."

"We have always hitherto had snow at Christmas, and sledging at the New
Year--" this was the kind of talk round the well. The words of the
speakers issued like vapoury clouds from their lips.

"Is it true?" said an elderly woman to Martina when she joined them,
"Is it true that our pastor was called to your mother-in-law's last
night?"

"I think," said another, "that Roettmann would have no objection to saw
up the tree that killed Vincent, and to make a coffin of it for his
tigress."

"A very good thing if she were to take herself off, and then you would
get your Adam."

"And then we should have a quiet Roettmaennin instead of a fierce one."

"If I were you, I would pray the old woman to death. The tailor of
Knuslingen knows a prayer, by which you can pray a person to death."

"No, no; you must curse them to death."

This was the discursive talk that went round. Martina, who had filled
her pitcher with water, and lifted it on her head, only replied, "Don't
speak in so godless a way, remember that tonight is Christmas Eve."

She went slowly homewards, as if the words, that still sounded in her
ears, made her linger behind, and she shivered when it occurred to her
that perhaps little Joseph had a presentiment of what was going on so
far from him, and that this had made him so restless. She had inwardly
reproached Adam with not suffering as she did, and at that very hour,
he was perhaps enduring the most severe trial that can befall any human
being--that of seeing the person you love best on earth draw their last
breath with bitter hatred in their soul.

The group of women standing round the well seemed to be in no hurry,
for some were leaning on their full pitchers, and some had placed them
on their heads, but all were talking of Martina.

"Martina would gladly go to the parsonage today."

"She is a strange creature. Old Roettmann offered her two thousand
guilders if she would give up all claims for her boy on his father, but
she refused at once."

"And old Schilder-David refuses also."

"Good morning, Haespele," said some one hastily; "what are your hens
doing? are they all safe and sound?"


"Is it true that you have a long-legged bird that crows in Spanish? Can
you understand him?"

This was the mode of greeting to the only man who came to the well with
a pitcher. It was Haespele. He wore a grey knitted jacket, and had a
coloured nightcap on his head, from underneath which a jovial, merry
face was seen, full of fun and good humour.

"Martina was here a few minutes ago; she is sure to come back soon,"
said one of the women, as she went away.

Haespele smiled his thanks, but was obliged to wait till all the women
had filled their pitchers, which he did willingly, and was even
goodnatured enough to help the others. Just as he had finished drawing
water for himself, Martina returned, on which they mutually assisted
each other, and walked a considerable way together, for Haespele was
obliged to pass Martina's house, in order to reach his own. So, as they
went along, Martina informed her companion that the Pastor had been
summoned on the preceding night to the Roettmaennin, and was not yet come
home. She could not resist expressing her hope, that the Pastor might
possibly succeed in softening the old woman's hard heart; but Haespele
said, "Oh, do not think so. Sooner would the wolf now prowling about
our woods come to my room and allow me to chain him up, as I do my
goat, than the fierce Roettmaennin give way. I told you already all that
occurred, when I took home a new pair of boots eight days ago to Adam,
and I gave you a message, that he would certainly come to see you
today. I myself believe the report, which is, that you intend to set
him free." Martina made no answer, but she suddenly stopped before the
door of her house, and said, "Look, here comes our Pastor home."

On the opposite side of the river, for Martina's house was on this side
of the ferry, a sledge was slowly driven along the high road. A man was
seated beside the driver, closely wrapped in a fur cloak, and a fur cap
drawn very forward over his face. The driver was comfortably smoking,
and made a friendly sign with his whip to Martina, as they passed. It
was one of Roettmann's farm-servants whom she knew. She returned the
greeting by waving her hand, and went into the house, while Haespele
also went homewards.

Just as Martina was about to shut the door, a female voice exclaimed,
"Leave it open, for I want to come in too."

"Good morning, Leegart; it is so good of you to come so early," said
Martina; and the sempstress, who, in spite of its being winter, wore
slippers with high heels, helped to put aside the water cans, for which
service Martina thanked her cordially. Leegart would not have done this
for most people; any one whom she assisted in any matter unconnected
with her work, might well be very proud; she considered it indeed,
quite an especial favour to come at all the very day before Christmas,
for she was much in request among all the women in the neighbourhood,
and wherever she went to work, she was held in high respect. This
feeling was evident now, from the manner in which Martina threw open
the house door as wide as possible, for her to enter; she received,
however, but a cool welcome within doors, for little Joseph exclaimed:
"Woe's me, Leegart!"




                              CHAPTER VI.
              HOW A VILLAGE PASTOR WAS SUMMONED TO COURT.


The Pastor's wife had been standing a long time at the window, looking
earnestly through the panes of glass; the road was only to be seen from
a corner window, the view from the others being intercepted by the
sharp gables of a projecting barn, which a peasant, from the wish to
annoy a former pastor, had built on the spot; adding an unusually high
roof, to block out all view from the Parsonage. Now that there was a
clergyman whom they all liked, the barn unluckily could not be removed.
The Pastor's wife was not able to see very far even from the
unobstructed window, for this was one of those days, when twilight
seems to prevail from one night to another; the sun shone dimly, like a
watery yellow ball, through the thick clouds which now overspread the
whole landscape. When the Pastorin saw the sledge close to the house
she nodded, but did not open the window, standing still as if fixed to
the spot. She would gladly have run down to welcome her husband, but
she knew that he disliked any public display of emotion or excitement;
he was of a shy and simple nature, and shrunk from all eager welcomes
or agitated leave takings.

She sent the maid down however instantly, who quickly pressing the
latch opened the house door. In order to do something, the Pastorin
once more arranged the cups and the bread, though all was in perfect
readiness; she took up her husband's well warmed slippers, lying beside
the stove, and turned them the reverse way; she took the kettle with
boiling water off the stove, and poured in fresh water. A pleasant
warmth was diffused through the room, for people who live on the
mountains understand this art.

"Good morning, Lina," said the Pastor, as he at last entered the room,
"God be praised, indeed, that I have got home again!" He unfastened his
fur cloak, and, as it was heavy, his wife assisted him.

"Is Edward still asleep?"

"No; he is gone out shooting. I sent him to meet you. Did you not see
him?"

"No."

The atmosphere of the room seemed too stifling for the Pastor, for he
opened the window, stood beside it for a few minutes, and then said:
"It was lucky that you did not know about the wolf, prowling about in
the wood, that all the people are in search of; perhaps you might have
imagined that the monster would swallow me up."

"Come, sit down and warm yourself," answered his wife, pouring him out
a cup of hot coffee. "I will hold the cup for you; I see that your
fingers are so stiff from cold, that you can't take it yourself.
Swallow only a couple of mouthfuls at first. What was the cause of your
being sent for, in the middle of the night, to that fierce old woman,
the Roettmaennin? No, no; first drink your coffee, and you can answer me
at your leisure. I can wait."

"Lina," said the Pastor, a singular smile stealing over his face,
"Lina, you may well be proud. I must be one of the most agreeable
companions in the world. Ah! this coffee is capital. Only think, Lina!
it was just one o'clock, for I heard it strike on the Wenger clock when
I arrived at Roettmannshof. My reception there was rather noisy, for I
was greeted by such an uproarious welcome, that I could really scarcely
get out of the sledge. The good people had unchained all the watch-dogs
during the night, saying it was not at all necessary to tie them up
when the Pastor was coming; the worthy souls really entertaining the
strange superstition, that the word of God is a sure defence against
vicious dogs, even in the dark. It was some time, therefore, before I
could make my way into the house, as all the dogs were first obliged to
be shut up in their kennels. Give me another cup of coffee, Lina, it is
so good--"

"Well, and what then?" said his wife.

The Pastor looked at her with a smile, and continued--

"The snow in that country comes up to the knees, but it has at least
one good property; that of being clean, though it does wet one to the
skin in the most remarkable manner. I luckily did not stumble over the
huge logs in the yard, hidden in the snow, and the puddles were so
obliging as to be frozen over. 'Where is your master?' said I. 'He is
in bed.' 'Is he dangerously ill also?' 'No, he is asleep.' 'Really! I
am summoned to his dying wife, and the husband is comfortably
sleeping:' a very easy going, pleasant world this is, thought I: well,
I went straight to the sick woman's room--'God be praised! Herr Pastor,
that you are come at last.' What! that is not surely the voice of a
woman at the point of death? I asked why I had been summoned in the
middle of the night. 'Oh! my good Herr Pastor,' said the Roettmaennin,
'you are so kind, so very kind, and have the art of conversing and
instructing so delightfully, that the very sight of you is reviving,
and makes me entirely forget my dangerous state. Here have I been lying
for seven nights, scarcely able to close my eyes, and I can't tell you
how bored and tired I am. I thought the time would never pass, so I
just sent for you. You are so good natured, Herr Pastor, I thought you
would sit and talk to me for a while and amuse me--my husband must on
no account hear that I sent for you, I am not at all in his good graces
at present; he goes from home as often as he can, and even when he
stays with me, he scarcely says one word; I believe he would have been
very glad if I had died long ago, and as for my only child, Adam, he
seems scarcely to know that I am in the world. Oh! Herr Pastor! any one
obliged as I am to lie here day and night, in this solitary house,
unable to do anything, would feel, like me, every day that passes to be
an eternity, and every night even worse. If my Vincent were still alive
he would have watched by me day and night; he would have nursed me in a
way in which no other human being ever can. So my good kind Pastor, sit
down here and talk to me. Would you like a glass of good Wachhold
brandy? it will warm you, you must take it, and shall positively not
refuse. Kaety, take down that long-necked green bottle from the shelf,
the one farthest back, and give a glass of brandy to the Pastor.' What
do you think were my feelings, Lina, when I heard the woman so coolly
pouring forth all these fluent speeches?"

"I should have had great difficulty in refraining from very hard words
to such a bold evil creature. Quite too bad! To drag you out of your
own house, on a cold December night, over snowy mountains."

"And a wolf wandering about, too," said the Pastor, indignantly.

"Don't talk about a wolf," rejoined Lina hastily, "this Roettmaennin is
the most ferocious wolf of all. I hope you gave her your opinion."

"Assuredly I did--may I be a little vain between ourselves? I must say
then, that never in my life was I better pleased with myself. I own I
could scarcely help laughing at her cool impertinence, and her childish
want of consideration, for children are just so; they only think of
themselves, and not of the sacrifices they exact from others. Say what
you will, there is a certain degree of simplicity in the selfishness of
the Roettmaennin; she thinks only of herself and never of others. Of
course I did not fail to tell her that it was rather an arbitrary
proceeding, so coolly to dispose of a person's night's rest, and that I
did not even feel flattered by her esteeming my conversation so highly,
and sending a court equipage for me, commanding me to appear at court.
Still, as I was actually there and had lost my night's sleep, I
conversed with her, and tried to amuse her, so far as my powers
permitted, and she took her share in the conversation, relating to me
various anecdotes of good and evil; but she evidently preferred the
latter, her chief delight being in detailing all sorts of bad actions,
to prove the wickedness of the world, and she always wound up by
saying:--'Before I die, there is one favour I ask of God; which is to
give me some sign as to Vincent's murderers, that they may be all
hanged and burned, even supposing half the village were included.' You
know that when she begins on this subject, she is full of vindictive
projects; and yet I have pretty good proof that she had no great love
for Vincent while he was alive. Now, however, she speaks of him with
the most enthusiastic fondness, and as if all her love were buried in
his grave, for no heart is so entirely evil that it does not seek some
valid reason for such bitterness; striving to prove that it had been
devoted to some particular object, for whose sake all else is to be
disregarded. I tried to appeal to her conscience by saying, that it was
certainly permitted to love the dead, but that nothing more could be
done to benefit them, whereas a great deal might be done for the
living; and that she ought, at last, to yield about the affair of Adam
and Martina, I depicted to her the delight she would take in her
grandson; I tried to persuade her, that in reality she had sent for me
on this very account, but felt a certain reluctance to own this
honestly to me, but--I do believe a wolf must be lurking very near
there--the Roettmaennin broke out into a loud howl, that she could only
have learned from a wolf; it really made me shudder with horror, and I
thought to myself, she will die on the spot, for sure am I that her
rage will choke her; she clutched the wall in her fury, and scratched
it with her nails, and at last sank back; however she very soon started
up again, and exclaimed: 'I thank God that I am still alive, and I
trust He will spare my life for many a year to come, that, even if I
cannot leave my bed, I may still have strength to cry out and to
protest, and with my last breath I will cry out and protest, that
never, never shall that miserable beggar's daughter, who herself led my
Adam astray, become the mistress of this house. Why, in these days, are
there no longer men to be found, to send out of the world such a
wretched creature, and her child into the bargain? Pretty clergymen we
have now! all lazy, good-for-nothing black coats; they have no longer
the fear of God before their eyes, for here is a Pastor who actually
recommends a reward for sin and wickedness. Martina ought rather to
stand at the church door, with a wreath of straw on her head, to do
public penance. But here she shall never come; no! not if a thousand
such--such hypocritical parsons were to pretend they had a message from
Heaven; and if they were to wring my neck for it, my last cry would be,
she shan't come here--she shan't come here: I will not suffer it, and
this very day I will take care to settle that point.'

"The father and son having been startled out of their sleep by the
savage scream of the Roettmaennin, now hurried into the room, and the old
man spoke to me just as if I had intruded myself of my own accord into
his house, and begged me distinctly to understand that he would not
allow his wife to be tormented, let Schilder-David send whom he would.
Adam stood with clasped hands and looked beseechingly at me. I had no
idea that the young man could look so gentle and anxious. I felt as if
I were one of those doomed men who, in legends, are summoned by demons
to do them a service. What a world this is! Are these the very men to
whom, for ten long years past, I have been anxiously preaching the
Gospel? Every word that I would fain have said seemed to freeze on my
lips. I only desired that the sledge might be instantly got ready to
take me home, but they paid no attention to me. At last Adam said, 'I
will drive you home myself, Herr Pastor. Pray forgive all that has
occurred.'

"'No!' exclaimed his mother, violently, 'he shan't go with you.
Christopher, hold him fast; he is quite capable of marrying his
good-for-nothing mistress on the spot.'--The father desired Adam to
stay at home, and he made a vow to his wife--laying his hand on the
Bible that I had left open--(it made me shudder to see the man make
such a vow on this holy book)--as a token that he would faithfully
perform it--that this very day he would see Adam's betrothal completed
with the Forest Miller's Tony.

"I scarcely remember how I got out of the house; I called the servant
who had fetched me and told him that I would walk on, and that he was
to follow me as soon as possible with the sledge. Morning was just
beginning to dawn as I went down the hill and through the forest, and I
felt as if I were flying from a cavern where demons dwelt. I don't
think that I lost my way, but the wolf met me; the animal stood still
for a moment, looked at me as if uncertain what to do, and then trotted
off quietly into the wood. I cannot deny that I was trembling from head
to foot, and never in my life did I feel so paralyzed from terror as at
that instant; besides it was frightfully cold, and I was very foolish
to walk on alone. There was no sign of the servant and the sledge. I
thought it very possible that those hard hearted creatures would
prevent his coming at all, and make me go home on foot; I retraced my
steps a short way, and anger and bitterness made me feel actually quite
warm--not far from the farm I met the servant, driving along in no
hurry, and luckily I found the flask of Kirsch in my pocket, that
you made me take with me. I cannot tell you all the thoughts that
passed through my mind during the hour when I was driving home, in a
half-waking state. Both King Solomon and Sirach have described a wicked
woman very impressively; I could furnish them with very lively
additions to their delineation--but, my precious Lina, of what value
would be either goodness, or the love of a fellow creature, without
being tested by wicked men? Still I cannot but rejoice that I have
decided on leaving this district. I shall soon enter my fiftieth year,
so I require less severe work; I have had hard enough toil in the days
of my youth, and even if I lose my present and my future Cure also, by
persisting in my resolution, I am quite determined never to marry Adam
to any one but Martina."

Drawing a deep breath, and dashing away the tears in her eyes, the
Pastorin said:--

"Yes, I do indeed think it will be a very good thing that we should go
to another country where men are more civilized, and will also do more
justice to your merits."

"Do not forget, however," said the Pastor, "that, although we have
often much boorishness to contend against, still we have many very
worthy persons here also. In our new destination we shall be sure to
find both good and bad, and work enough--but now I must say I am
dreadfully tired--I can see no one till eleven o'clock--I must go to
rest, so try to keep all as quiet as possible. Good night, or rather
good morning! When I rise, I shall feel as if a whole year had elapsed,
since the nocturnal visit to the Roettmanns."

The Pastor went to his bedroom, which was cleverly heated, by the
parlour stove being placed in the wall between the rooms. Soon all was
as still in the house as if it were midnight.

Lina glided about on tip-toe, and she hung a green cloth over the
bird-cage, to silence the bird; and, for the second time to day, she
gave a liberal breakfast to those unfortunate beggars, waiting outside,
the sparrows and goldfinches. The wind speedily dispersed the crumbs
she scattered on the window-sill--the hungry little creatures seemed
however to find plenty of food, and at last flew away as quietly as if
they had known that the Pastor's sleep was not to be disturbed. The
Pastorin sat at the window with her work in her hand, and made anxious
signs to any one approaching the house to be quiet; presently she saw
the most pleasing of all sights in the country--the letter-carrier
coming up to the house, and ran down quickly to meet him at the door to
prevent his ringing, receiving from him several packets of letters from
relatives and friends in the capital. She would not open any of the
letters, for she wished that her husband should be with her when she
read them, and that they should enjoy all the pleasant news together.
None of the letters were however directed to her, and one bore the seal
of the Consistorial President.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                      THE HOME OF SCHILDER-DAVID.


"Woe's me, Leegart!" had been the exclamation of little Joseph as that
good woman entered, for which want of civility his grandfather gave him
a hearty box on the ear. The boy began to cry and his grandfather to
scold, and Martina both to scold and to cry; for David would not even
allow her to soothe the boy by a single kind word. And Leegart said,
in a sensible tone of voice, though certainly with rather a nasal
twang--"It is really too bad to meet with such a welcome! I ought to go
away again immediately: it is enough to make one superstitious; but
whatever we do, let us at all events avoid superstition! Nothing in the
world is so dreadful; for people plague themselves perpetually about
things they do not see, and I am sure we have all plague enough with
the things we do see; so I shall stay where I am. Good morning, Joseph!
Say 'good morning' to me, prettily. There--now shake hands!"

"The boy slept very badly last night, and does not know what he is
saying," said Martina, in order to excuse the child.

"Make no apology to me, and let us say no more about it," said Leegart,
placing on the table, in formidable array, a solid pincushion,
consisting of a heavy brick covered with cloth, a pair of scissors with
a large and a small handle, and a smaller pair, a stock of pins and
needles, and a tiny wax taper. She thereby took possession of the house
for the day, and regulated it accordingly from her throne; for she
never rose again from her seat till she went away late at night.
Before, however, she settled in her place for the day, she went into
the next room, and returned shorn of her upper petticoat, for she was
never seen in the street without being very neatly dressed; but she was
anxious not to spoil her best gown by sitting on it. When she came into
the room again, she pushed the table into a comfortable corner, seated
herself, and Martina placed a footstool under her feet; and now Leegart
gave her orders in few and distinct words, and commenced by saying,
"Martina, get breakfast."

Martina brought in the oatmeal porridge, and placed it on the table.
Joseph said grace; and out of his stock of prayers, he selected on this
occasion the shortest--"May God give food to all poor children on
earth. Amen." Joseph had dried his tears, and was seated between his
grandfather and grandmother; and, after grace was said, all were as
quiet as possible at table--each helped himself with his own spoon out
of the dish, and there were no disputes as to precedence.

The room was perfectly clean and tidy, though small and poor. Above the
stove, just over the substantial old easy chair, there was a large
nail, with a brass head, stuck in the wall, on which once upon a time,
Martina's certificate of confirmation had hung--but nothing hung from
it now. Martina always avoided looking at it, and David had given
strict orders that the nail was not to be removed.

The head of the house, Schilder-David, was a man advanced in years, but
it was difficult to know his exact age. His hair was thick, closely
cropped, and snow white; but his face, encircled by a snowy beard, had
rather a youthful appearance, especially his deep blue eyes and dark
eyebrows, which appeared not to harmonize with the rest of his
features. His wife was tall and slender, but very little of her face
was visible, for she invariably wrapped her head in thick
handkerchiefs, and when she did speak, the sounds she uttered were
apparently brought forth with such difficulty, that it was evident she
did not hear even her own voice. The sempstress Leegart was a delicate,
pale, rather superior-looking person, somewhat advanced in life, but
still preserving traces of extreme beauty: moreover, her manner was
always gentle and polite. Her black cloth jacket was only fastened at
the throat, and open down to the waist, so that a white kerchief and
still whiter skin were visible. Those who did not know the fact could
scarcely perceive that she occasionally took a sly pinch, for she
never showed her snuff-box, and took a pinch so neatly and quickly
that it was almost imperceptible. It was difficult to believe that
little Joseph was only just six years old, for he might easily be
supposed three years older at least: his limbs were strong and finely
formed--what the country-people here call a well grown lad; his hair
was fair and curly, to which his marked eyebrows and dark eyes--his
mother's eyes--formed a singular contrast. Little Joseph was in fact,
the central point of the family, and this was evident by the extreme
confusion his strange welcome to Leegart had caused.

There was little said during the meal, but Leegart mentioned that the
Pastor had been sent for on the preceding night to the Roettmaennin.

"We never speak of such a person here," said Schilder-David, giving a
significant glance at Leegart and then at Joseph.

They all rose from table. Joseph's measure was taken for his jacket,
and then the outlines drawn with white chalk on the green cloth, and
Leegart's huge shears cut out the cloth on the table with a strange
snapping sound.

"Stay at home to-day--the mill-stream is frozen over," said David to
Joseph, and went into his work-shop, which was partitioned off a loft
above the saw-mill. There was here a turning lathe with a strap
attached to a cylinder, and this was fastened to the spring-wheel of
the mill below; and the water power that impelled the large machine
turned also the smaller one, at which David constructed his wooden
watch dials and clock cases.

Little Joseph was standing apart, as if in disgrace, when his
grandfather, contrary to his usual custom, went out alone. Usually he
took Joseph with him; and the boy supplied his furnace with chips, and
brought him rough pieces of wood for his work, taking away those that
were finished and arranging them in good order. His mother took the boy
with her into the kitchen, and there she asked him, "Joseph, what ails
you to-day? Why did you exclaim so uncivilly, 'Woe's me, Leegart!'? she
is so kind to you, and your godmother besides, and is making you a
pretty new jacket."

Not a word from Joseph.

A child can scarcely remember what he said a few minutes previously,
and can never recall the train of his ideas, and consequently cannot
explain them. The words of children are like the songs of birds, devoid
of rhythm, and yet emanating from a hidden life within.

After a pause, Joseph began of his own accord to say, "Mother, is not
my father to be here to-day? You told me so."

"Yes, he will be here. He is sure to come, I think," answered Martina,
with a deep sigh. Now she understood why Joseph had been so
disappointed on seeing Leegart. No doubt, when she threw open the door,
Joseph expected to see his father; so he had called out, "Woe's me,
Leegart!" simply because it was another person, and not his father.
Joseph went on talking, and saying he knew his father would take him on
his horse, and probably give him one of his own.

Martina anxiously endeavoured to divert the child's thoughts from his
father, but she could not succeed. In the depression of her heart, she
had too often made Adam a topic of conversation, and had frequently
spoken her inmost thoughts to the boy, whose dawning intellect and
thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father. He had formed the
most singular ideas about him, and was perpetually asking why his
grandmother persisted in plaguing his father, and preventing his coming
home to them.

"Which way will my father come to-day?" asked Joseph.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do know, and you must tell me," said little Joseph, beginning
to whimper; and his mother, drawing him closer to her, said, "Hush,
hush! no one must overhear us. If you are quite good and quiet, I will
tell you presently."

The boy checked his sobs, and his mother began to tell him what pretty
presents he was to get at Christmas, and asked him if there was
anything he particularly wished for. The boy cared for nothing but a
horse: people had told him that his father had fourteen horses in his
stable. All attempts to distract his attention were vain; his thoughts
were entirely concentrated on his father; and he repeated, "Tell me,
which way will he come to day?"

The mother said in a subdued tone, "You must not tell a living creature
one syllable about your father coming here to-day. Give me your hand on
it; not one word to any human being."

The boy gave his mother his hand, and stared at her, his large eyes
still swimming in tears. Martina said no more, for she thought she had
pacified the child. But presently, with the most obstinate pertinacity,
he began again, "Which way will he come? tell me!"

"There are several roads, but I think he will come through the valley
and the wood. But now not another word; you are not to plague me any
more. Go and fetch some fir chips from the workshop."

The boy went out to fetch the wood, and the mother thought, with quiet
satisfaction, "He will one day be a true man: when he wants a thing he
will never rest till he gets it."

She then went with the boy into the sitting-room, but Leegart said,
"Send away Joseph, for we can't talk before the child."

"Joseph, go to Haespele, and look at the new boots he is making for
you," said the mother.

Joseph did not want to go, but his mother persisted in sending him out
of the house. The boy stood outside, looking very indignant, and
muttering, "When my father comes I will tell him all about it. I am not
to stay anywhere; neither with my grandfather nor at home."
Nevertheless he did go to see Haespele, and was as merry and good
humoured as possible, for Haespele loved the boy, and when he was tired
of playing with his toys, he could always amuse him by talking to him.

For a year past he had repeatedly promised to give Joseph a dog, and
the boy was now very speculative as to what the animal was to be like,
and what tricks it was to be taught. Haespele had one capital pretext
for delay, which was that he would have to search some time before he
could find a dog exactly answering Joseph's description; for it was
sometimes large, and sometimes small; at one time it had four white
paws, at another all brown; at one moment it was to be a wolf dog, and
the next a Spitz.

In the meanwhile Leegart was talking to Martina, and could not
comprehend why Martina was not more eager to ascertain whether her
deadly foe had not at length quitted the world. She urged her to go to
the Parsonage to inquire what state the Roettmaennin was in.

"You know very well," said Martina, "that formerly our Pastor was
always glad to see me in his house, but not now. I can't go there
without some pretext when he is at home."

"Very well; in that case, go to my house; and on the chest of drawers
with the mirror above it you will find a china soup tureen, and in it
three nightcaps, which I have just made for the Pastor's wife. Take
them to her from me, and then you will hear how matters stand."

Martina did as she told her.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                    WARM AND SNUG IN THE PARSONAGE.


Can there be such a thing as a holy feast for a woman like the
Roettmaennin? Can there exist a human being doomed one day to leave this
world, without ever having felt the joyful sensation of being happy, or
of having contributed to the happiness of others? That there are such
persons, cannot fail to cast a dark shadow on the earth, and must
prevent anyone feeling unalloyed gladness of heart.

These were the reflections floating in the mind of the Pastorin, as she
sat at the window. Soon, however, she chased away all such shadows, and
her soul became as bright as the morning of this joyous and holy
festival, which is a ray emanating from eternity.

She arose and went through the house, like a gentle hushed spirit. The
approaching feast day, and also the thought that her brother was with
her, shed such lustre and gladness on her whole being, that everything
seemed to smile on her; and while she prepared a good breakfast for her
brother, who was sure to return very hungry from shooting, she looked
at the ham, the butter, and eggs, with considerable complacency, as if
grateful to them for possessing the excellent property of nourishing
and strengthening man.

These articles of food could not speak, or make any observations in
return; but the maid being pretty well aware that her mistress liked to
talk of her brother, said, "What a handsome, grand gentleman your
brother is, ma'am. When he arrived yesterday evening I really thought
he was the Prince who drove through here last winter, on his way to
shoot;" and the maid gave her own face a good rub with her apron, to
make it look as well as possible. "I was so glad we happened to have
killed a goose," added she, giving an affectionate look at the
slaughtered victim, hanging outside the kitchen window.

Brother Edward returned home about ten o'clock. The Pastorin warned him
that her husband was still asleep, and he placed his gun as gently in
the corner as if it had been made of cotton. Her brother's good
appetite pleased the Pastorin, who seated herself with her embroidery
beside Edward, and told him the Pastor's adventures. He, in return,
said he had shot nothing, for he felt quite sure he had got on the
track of the wolf; but he lost all traces of the animal in a ravine, as
he was afraid of venturing to descend into it alone. He had gone as far
as the forest mill, and described with much enthusiasm the grand and
striking aspect of the landscape, the waterfalls all frozen, and the
rocks glittering like finely cut crystal. The more awe inspiring and
imposing the young man delineated the scene without, the more snug and
comfortable did the room appear within. And the brother and sister
talked to each other with the same quiet ease with which the heat
diffused itself through the room: the pendulum of the clock and the
crackling of the wood in the stove were more audible than their voices.
Gentle flakes of snow were falling slowly and quietly outside,
fluttering in the air as if in play, making the room within seem even
more comfortable than usual.

"I have still an adventure to relate to you," recommenced Edward.

"Won't you wait till my husband is awake, so that you may not have to
tell it twice over?"

"No; I wish you alone to hear it, and you must promise me secresy. I
was standing behind a bush, not far from the forest mill, on the
watch, for I thought the wolf would be sure to appear again, when I saw
two girls coming along the path. They stood still not far from my
hiding-place, and one girl said, 'I will say good bye to you here;
thank you for your kindness, my mother in Heaven will reward you for
it. But it is all over; I cannot help myself. Oh! why are those days
gone by, when a wicked woman could transform you into a raven? I wish I
were that raven in the sky above our heads; then I could fly far away,
then my misery would be over. See! the snow is melting where my tears
fall on it; but nothing can melt a hard heart, and my father is
entirely changed.' Her tears prevented her saying more, and her
companion left her. The weeping girl turned back towards the mill; I
could not resist advancing to meet her, but I almost regretted it when
I saw such sorrow overclouding the young, fresh, blooming face. I would
gladly have tried to console her, but I really did not know what to
say; so I simply wished her good day. She looked at me, startled, and
stood still for a moment in surprise, and then went on her way."

"That must have been the Forest Miller's Tony," said the Pastorin; "a
good-hearted girl, as ever lived. She is to be betrothed to Adam, I
hear."

"That would be too shameful!" exclaimed Edward, indignantly.

"I quite agree with you. Tony is the Forest Miller's only child. Her
mother was an excellent woman: so long as she lived, the forest mill
was the most highly respected house in the whole community, and the
resort and refuge of all the poor. Little Tony went daily for four
years to school, three or four miles off, and in winter she came on a
donkey. A child like that, going daily alone for years through a
valley, encircled by rocks and by the forest, cannot fail to become
thoughtful and observant, if naturally of a quick and lively
disposition; for there is much to see and hear of animal life in the
forest, unknown to the world. Little Tony was a very quick child, and
she was often to be heard telling her thoughts aloud, and singing songs
in the forest. She has a most lovely voice. Two years ago her mother
died, and the guardian appointed by her father is the innkeeper at
Wenger, whose sister shortly after married the Forest Miller. From that
hour the girl had never another happy moment; and her guardian being
unluckily the brother of her stepmother, it comes to pass that Tony
will be forced to marry Adam Roettmann."

Suddenly the Pastorin interrupted herself, saying, "I must surely have
left the house door open, for I hear some one on the stairs."

"Hush! be quiet!" said she softly, opening the door. "Oh! it is you,
Martina; come in, but tread softly, for the Herr Pastor is asleep. What
message have you for me?"

"Leegart sent me here, to bring you these nightcaps."

"Why did she not come herself?"

"She is in our house, busy making a new jacket for my Joseph."

"You dress Joseph too smartly; you will spoil him," said the Pastorin.

"Leegart takes no payment from me," said Martina timidly, and, turning
away suddenly, the red shawl in which she had wrapped her head fell
back. The young man gazed earnestly at her pretty oval face, and large
dark brown eyes. Martina felt that he was looking at her, and casting
down her eyes blushed deeply, groping for the handle of the door in
going out, as if she had been in the dark.

The Pastorin, however, followed her into the passage, and said, "You
would like to know about the Roettmaennin? The state of her health is as
bad as that of her heart. She sent for the Herr Pastor last night, but
she is not dangerously ill; far from it."

"God is my witness that I do not wish for her death," said Martina
earnestly, laying both hands on her heart.

"I believe you. My husband had a severe struggle with her, but he
persists in his determination never to marry Adam to any one but
yourself. But I will tell you all about it another time," said the
Pastorin, turning to re-enter the room.

But Martina said uneasily, "Oh! dear Madam, I cannot make out what is
the matter with my Joseph for some days past; he speaks and thinks of
nothing but his father. He insists on my talking of him till he goes to
sleep, and in the morning his first words are always about his father.
He has refused positively to go back to school any more, for they call
him _The Foal_ there, because his father's nickname in the village is
_The Horse_."

The Pastorin could not help smiling, but she said, "I cannot stay with
you at present: that was my youngest brother who has come to visit me.
Pray be very strict with Joseph: the whole village spoils that child.
Come to see me again during the holidays, and shut the outer door very
gently."

Martina went homewards with slow and heavy steps, singing in a
melancholy tone the lines that seemed to haunt her memory:

           "Faithful love my bosom fills,--
              Can true love ever fade?
            Oh! what a smile that heart must wear
              That never was betrayed."

In the mean time the Pastorin returned into the sitting-room, when her
brother Edward proved that he had a quick eye, not only for fine
scenery, but also for pretty people, by expressing his sincere regret,
that so lovely a creature should be doomed to pass her days in poverty
and sorrow.

"But though she looks ill even now," said the Pastorin, "if you had
seen her a year after her disgrace, she was so changed that it was
scarcely possible to recognise her, she looked so deadly pale, and just
like a dying person. It is said that a speech of Leegart's made her
strive to bear her calamity with more courage. 'Don't go on grieving in
that way,' said she, 'or people will say that Adam is quite right to
forsake such a faded, emaciated creature.' This advice, and love for
her boy, inspired Martina with new life."

While the Pastorin was talking to her brother, and listening to him,
she was also listening to sounds in the adjacent room, for she
suspected that the Pastor was now dressing; and, while doing so, he was
humming the air that she had sung with Edward the evening before; so
she quickly sat down at the piano, and sung once more, with her
brother, Mozart's melody, "Joys and sorrows let us share."

The Pastor entered the room, smiling kindly. He must, however, have
heard a good deal, even in his sleep, for in a few moments he said,
"Lina, Martina has just been here, I do beg that my orders may be
attended to, that she is not to be in the habit of coming here."

"You are generally so indulgent," ventured Edward to remark.

"Perhaps so; but that is quite compatible with sternness, when it is
requisite. Those who have sinned may reform and repent, but the
privilege of being at home in the Parsonage is one they ought no longer
to enjoy. It would be destructive to all morality if sin were allowed,
from false ideas of humanity, to remain unpunished."

The usually benevolent features of the Pastor assumed a stern,
uncompromising air while uttering these words. But he quickly added,
"Edward, give me one of your cigars."

The three once more sat pleasantly together.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                         BETROTHAL AND PLIGHT.


Mozart's harmonies were entirely ignored at the Roettmann's residence;
indeed, for seven years past, ever since Martina had been in their
service, no songs had ever been heard in that house. In all other
respects, however, the good living went on as before: there was an
everlasting roasting, boiling, and stewing; and the moment you
approached the house such a rich greasy odour was perceptible that all
who came from Roettmanshof seemed impregnated with lard and suet. It was
said that the cause of this greasy smell, was the old lady pouring
whole cansfull of spoiled lard on the road every year. She preferred
its being thrown away to giving it to any poor person. There was very
little stir of labour about the place, for a wood merchant has the
advantage of his possessions growing while he is sleeping, and without
any exertion on his part.

The house looked very singular in the midst of the snowy landscape. In
order to protect it from the weather, it was covered with shingles on
every side, painted bright red. To live in such a dwelling was like
living in a furnace.

There was a great uproar this morning at Roettmannshof, and nothing is
more repulsive than when a morning commences by incessant noise. What
kind of people must they be who on rising from sleep, in the early
freshness of morning, break out into angry discord and noisy strife,
and persevere in them, as if there was no such thing on earth as sleep
or quiet self-forgetfulness for man, enabling him to begin life afresh
each morning?

If the old Roettmaennin, even formerly, when she could still sleep, was
in the habit of rising at early dawn, as if preparing each day a war of
extermination, how much more unendurable now were her impatience and
restlessness, when she could no longer sleep at all! From her sick bed
she regulated everything with twofold severity, and it seemed quite
inconceivable how she could continue to live on amid this perpetual
irritation, and restless state of exasperation.

"I am quite well; I am resolved to go with you myself," said she. "I
don't care if I die by the way, so that I only complete this affair. Go
away, men; I am going to rise and dress properly. Now, this very
morning, the matter shall be finally settled with the Forest Miller's
Tony. What do you mean by standing so stupidly there, Adam? You ought
to be thankful that I manage matters for you--I mean your father and I
together; for in all your life you could do nothing for yourself, and
you will remain a poor creature to the end of your days. If no one will
undertake this Schilder-David and his family, I will show them their
proper place."

She insisted on her husband and son dressing in their Sunday clothes,
and they looked very imposing in their long coats without collars, and
high, boots drawn up above the knees. These high boots are the
uncontested right of the upper class of farmers: the peasants and day
labourers, even to this day, wear shoes and short leather breeches, or
long ones of coarse canvass. The Roettmaennin, who had not left the house
for a whole year, was all at once as active as a young girl. The sledge
was brought to the door, feather beds were placed in it, and the
parents drove with their son to the Forest Mill. A messenger preceded
them to announce their arrival. The amazement was unbounded at the
Forest Mill at the appearance of the Roettmaennin herself. The miller's
wife was especially gracious, and the daughter could not avoid being
also polite, though her eyes were red from crying; in other respects
she looked neat and pretty, and any man who sought her hand from
affection, might well be proud of such a bride. Adam followed his
parents mechanically into the room, as if without any will of his own;
and at the same moment, when the flakes of snow were gently falling in
the valley before the Pastor's house, pledges were finally exchanged,
and Adam was betrothed to Tony.

It scarcely seemed as if a living hand were stretched out to receive a
living one, when Adam clasped that of his bride, but he endeavoured to
make the best of it, and swallowed long draughts of the good red wine
that the Forest Miller placed on the table. They sat together feasting
till the evening. Speidel Roettmann had the power of incessantly
drinking, and as incessantly eating; and he continued throwing large
morsels of meat, right and left, into the jaws of his huge mastiffs;
and the snapping, and growling, and gobbling was wonderful to hear,
every single bone being crunched up. To be able to drink wine, and more
wine, and wine without end, is an advantage that men possess over
animals. While Speidel Roettmann was placing glass after glass to his
lips, he kept stroking the head of one of his great dogs, as if to say,
drinking is my privilege, and not yours. They insisted on Adam
remaining in the kitchen with his bride, who was preparing some hot
mulled wine; and the two fathers drank merrily together, while their
wives gossiped in a low tone.

When the fathers agreed that the affair with Martina would now be
easily broken off, the Forest Miller laughed, and said, "Young people
are become very prudish now-a-days."

"They have no sense whatever," rejoined Speidel Roettmann. "It is nearly
seven years now that Adam has been plaguing both himself and us, on
account of that stupid affair of his. In our youth, much we should have
cared for any such matter." And the two old men clinked their glasses
together.

The mulled wine came, and they drank each other's health, and emptied
the tall glasses to the dregs, and refilled them, and laughed, and
narrated all their youthful pranks and exploits; and the burden of
their song was always, that the youth of the present day were good for
nothing, and totally devoid of all life and spirit.

Adam was standing beside his betrothed bride in the kitchen. For a long
time he did not speak, and at last he said, "I say, why did you agree
to have me? don't you know how I am situated?"

Tony answered smiling, "I suppose since the world began, no one ever
asked his betrothed such a question. But do you know, Adam, I am rather
glad you have done so, for it is honest on your part, and a good
beginning, if it be the will of God that we should live together, and
it appears we must. You see, Adam, there is no hope of your getting
Martina, and I am miserable, far more miserable than you can have the
least idea of. So I thought to myself, we are both miserable, so
perhaps we may lighten each other's burdens; and I am quite resolved to
leave my stepmother, for I am always in her way; and you can't think
what a person feels on seeing a stranger come to your own house and
home, abusing everything she sees, no matter how good and handsome it
may be. It vexes me to death to see her extravagance in the house, and
my father gets no good from it; and even the cup that belonged to my
mother, and was kept sacred, she actually gave to the farm servant, and
she only did so because she knew that it would annoy me. I shall become
cross and spiteful myself if I remain with her. My tongue is full of
gall, and words come to my lips, and thoughts into my head, that are
downright wicked. I often wish I were lying six feet under ground, and
I would have done so long ago, had it not been for the good, kind
Pastorin."

"I pity you," said Adam; "but as for me, though I still have my own
mother, she is more bitter towards me than any stepmother. I do not
like to say it, but I must. My Martina alone induced me to submit to
such usage, and not to run away from it into the wide world. And now I
am become an illtempered fellow; formerly I was only gruff and
thoughtless. I would far rather that you were harsh, and bitter, and
irritable, so that I could feel no compassion for you; in that case I
would have behaved in such a way that you would have been forced to
give me up. But now I don't know what to do; I pity you--yes, I pity
you from the bottom of my heart; but don't forget how I am situated
myself."

It was far from an agreeable conversation that the two held together,
and no fond or kindly words passed between them, as the bride was
preparing the mulled wine. She carried the jug into the next room,
having previously poured out a glass for Adam. When she returned he
drank her health, and when she gave him some more, and, taking some
herself, made her glass ring against his, he said, "Upon my word, you
are much prettier than I thought. After all, I ought not to complain at
being forced to marry you: if it were not for one thing--one thing
alone--I should be quite happy. If I had only seen you seven years ago,
as I see you now, I might have been the most fortunate fellow in the
world. But what am I saying? I feel a stab, as if a knife had pierced
my heart. Have patience with me; I can say no more."

Adam sat down, and covered his eyes with his hands, and then muttered,
"This is my idea, do you see? I wish to tell you something; but not a
word of it to your parents or mine. Give me your hand, as a token that
you will keep my secret."

The bride gave her hand to Adam, who clasped it warmly, and continued,
"I had sent a message to my Martina, that on this very day I would come
to see her. For nearly two years past I have been obliged to go to
church in another village, for spies were always watching me, and for a
whole year I have never been able to speak to my Martina and--my
Joseph; so now I must keep my promise; and yet I would like to give you
a parting kiss; but--I won't, I wont! no! it would be wrong until I am
once more a free man."

"You are honest, and can speak to the purpose," said the bride,
smiling; "and yet people say you are so sulky."

"Very few know anything about me. No one really understands me except
my Martina. She sees me as I really am, and yet I said very little to
her, or she to me, and yet we knew each other thoroughly: she was
quick, and she saw that though I was one of the richest men in the
country, yet I was the poorest in reality. But she shall tell you
about it, for she can talk far better than I can. You don't know how
clever she is, and so good hearted, and so cheerful, and so loveable,
and--and"--

Adam suddenly checked himself. To whom was he saying all this? to his
betrothed bride! and she was looking at him, as if trying to remind him
where they where and what they were. Nothing was heard but the clinking
of the old men's glasses in the next room, and the whispering of the
two mothers. At last Adam said, "So I have your promise that you
won't say a word to any one. And now I must leave you to go to my
Martina----to Martina--and--to my--boy, in the village. I shall be back
by the time the Christmas tree is lighted up, and then it will either
be--or--. God bless you!"

Tony, rather astonished, watched Adam wrapping himself in his grey
cloak, and putting on his fur cap; then seizing his thick knotted stick
with its long sharp point, he swung it in the air. He looked very
handsome, but a formidable fellow. He left the room hurriedly, and the
bride remained quietly seated by the fire. After a time Speidel
Roettmann came into the kitchen, and said, "What is going on here? The
dogs are so restless, and are whining beside us. Where is Adam?"

"He is gone."

"Where?"

"I don't mean to tell you; but he is soon coming back."

"Really? I know well enough where he is gone. But not a word to my wife
of this, nor to your father. Has he been long gone?"

"Only a few minutes."

"Slip into the next room, and fetch me my hat; but take care that
nobody sees you, and on no account let the dogs out. But no--yes; go
get my hat. Adam is a fool, and you are the best girl in the world."

The bride, glad to get away from Speidel Roettmann's hints, went and
fetched his hat and stick; and the old man enjoined on her to say that
he meant to return immediately. So away he went, placing his stick
firmly on the ground each step he took, as he strode along. He takes
good care of himself.




                              CHAPTER X.
                     A FATHER IN SEARCH OF HIS SON.


When Adam got into the open air, he felt as if he had suddenly awoke.
"What has happened? Unless I choose, nothing has happened." He
shivered, and the hand which had clasped Tony's was now so cold that he
tried to warm it on the head of his pipe. There was no possibility of
missing the way to the village, but attention was necessary; for there
was a steep precipice overhanging the valley below, close to the road;
the snow was rapidly falling in thick flakes, and Adam had not gone
twenty paces when he looked like a moving snow man. He was obliged to
keep a sharp look out, for he could see no path before him; but he was
so well acquainted with every tree, and every rock hereabouts, that he
had no difficulty in finding them out even in the snow. When he reached
the rising ground whence the descent into the valley commences, and
looking back, saw the lights shining so cheerily in the Forest Mill, he
felt a strong inclination to go back there.

"She is a very pretty creature, and hundreds have done the same, and
yet have lived gaily and happily with their wives:--turn back!"

But, in spite of these tempting thoughts, he went straight on down the
hill, so the lights in the mill soon disappeared from his view; and now
his heart felt lighter, and in the thickly falling snow he lifted his
hand to Heaven and vowed--"I will go home no more. I would rather be a
poor labourer, and earn my daily bread, than desert my Martina, and my
child, my Joseph; it is two years since I have heard his voice--he must
be very much grown, and able now to say 'Father, father'!"

Suddenly Adam stood still--a child's voice was calling "Father,
father!" through the wood, and once more, quite distinctly, "Father!"
"Oh! I must be mistaken. How could it be? That mulled wine has confused
my senses."

Adam relit his pipe, which had gone out, and by its flash he saw that
there were irregular traces of dog's paws in the snow. "What is it? A
dog no doubt has lost his master, and is searching for him," But there
were no marks of a man's foot to be seen. "What need I care? I want to
get on."

Hush! what again? a man's voice shouts from the top of the hill--"Adam!
Adam!"--"Am I dreaming? or is the world bewitched tonight?"

Adam grasped his huge stick more firmly in his hand. "Let them come,
the whole array of sorcerers, or demons, if they like. I am not afraid,
for my life is not less wicked than theirs; because, like a lazy,
foolish fellow, I have yielded to others for so many years; and God
forgive me for my folly in thinking that my mother might yield at
last;--for supposing that an iron horseshoe could be softened;--and now
I have submitted to be made a Christmas mummer, and allowed myself to
be betrothed; but I will never marry Tony, never; and, in spite of the
whole world, I am resolved to do as I choose. I will have my Martina
and Joseph for my own. Come on there, demons and evil spirits! What is
that? It is the dog whose traces I saw just now. Come here, dog, come
along. He won't come. Good Heavens! it is the wolf we have been
searching for. He barks hoarsely--he is coming nearer."

For an instant Adam's hair stood on end, then boldly rushing forwards,
he shouted--"I'll soon do for you--there, and there!"

The wolf now discovered what fierce strokes a man can give who has been
forced into a betrothal, especially when that man is Adam Roettmann. The
wolf received the strokes due to the wicked world in general, on which
Adam would gladly have hammered away for an hour, and even after the
animal lay prostrate, Adam scarcely believed he was dead; for wolves
are vastly cunning, and he continued his blows, till at last he
cautiously turned the animal over with the spike of his staff, and saw
his four feet sticking up in the air. As the wolf no longer showed the
smallest signs of life, Adam said, with infinite composure--"There, you
are pretty well done for!" Perspiration was streaming down his
forehead; he had lost his pipe, which had fallen out of his mouth, and
it was probably the sparks he had shook out that had frightened the
wolf. Adam sought in every direction for his pipe, but it was nowhere
to be seen; at last he gave it up, and seizing the wolf by the nape of
the neck, he dragged it behind him the whole way. When he saw the
lights in the village, he laughed, and thought--"How astonished all in
the village will be, when I bring them the wolf beat to death by my
cudgel, and what will my Joseph say? Yes, little fellow! you must
respect your father for his strength." Adam had in reality heard his
name called behind him; for his father had followed him, and shouted
out "Adam!" Who knows whether in the blinding snow the old man has not
lost his way? Was Adam right also, in thinking that he heard a child's
voice in the wood calling out "Father"?

It was not long before the inhabitants of the Forest Mill discovered
that both father and son had mysteriously gone away, and the Roettmaennin
knew well where they had gone to.

She raged most, however, against her husband, who, without saying a
word to her, had gone in pursuit of his foolish son; he was sure to do
something stupid, when he did not come to her for advice. Adam too was
by no means spared, and she called him many names far from flattering,
and not at all in accordance with bridal festivities. The miller's
wife, however, was sharp enough to interpose, saying that the
Roettmaennin was only in jest, because she knew that in truth no
honourable titles were more than they deserved; and both women looked
up in surprise when the bride said--"All that I heard Adam say, while
he was sitting here with me, was kind, and sensible, and judicious."
The two women burst out laughing with one accord, and said she was
quite right; the Roettmaennin, patting the bride's shoulder, said that
was the only true way to get round a man, for they ought to be under
petticoat government; that men were good-for-nothing creatures, and
that they were utterly useless till they had a good wife. She, however,
said she made an exception in the case of her dear relative, the Forest
Miller, who did not apparently appreciate this compliment; for he could
only stammer when he tried to speak, and then coughed so violently that
he nearly choked. The Forest Miller had committed a rash action in
drinking fair with Speidel Roettmann, a competition no one had ever yet
attempted without being punished for it.

His wife was very much concerned about him, and prevailed on him to go
to bed; she then came back to the room, and said--"Heaven be praised!
he is sleeping quietly; he ought to know that no one is a match for
Roettmann in drinking."

Flattered by this compliment, the Roettmaennin said--"Take care that with
such a cough, he does not delay making his will."

"People say--God forgive me for repeating their malice!" said the
miller's wife, "that the Roettmaennin is a malicious woman. Can any one
be kinder than she is, in thus taking charge of a lone widow?" and
then, as if this misfortune had already occurred, she looked quite
disconsolate, and began to rub her eyes; as this was, however, of no
use, she clasped her hands, and, looking admiringly at the Roettmaennin,
continued--"And she thinks of my interests, and does not want her own
precious son to inherit every thing."

The Roettmaennin said she was obliged to her; but she was quite mistaken,
for she had never meant anything of the kind. She admitted that her son
deserved very little, but still she was not quite such a fool, as to
wish to see money and land heaped on strangers, when it ought by right
to come into her family.

The Roettmaennin now urged very sharply, that a messenger should be sent
after her husband and son. The head farmservant was summoned, but he
declared that he would not go, and that, moreover, he knew none of the
other servants would leave the house in such weather, and indeed he
could not blame them for refusing; and, moreover, there was no need to
fetch them back, for when these hardy Roettmanns once got into the wood
they would only return of their own accord. The Roettmaennin was very
indignant, and begged that at least her sledge might be brought to the
door, that she might be driven home; she would show both her husband
and Adam who was master, when she was once in her own house again. But
no one in the mill would drive her, and both the miller's wife, with
the most civil speeches, and the bride with the most kind cordiality,
pressed her to stay all night at the mill; saying that everything would
look very different by daylight next morning, and Adam had promised to
return before the Christmas tree was lighted. She added that the
children of the servants at the mill had been waiting anxiously for
some time to see the tree lit up, and to receive their presents. The
Roettmannin and the miller's wife thought this a very good idea, and the
former praised the bride exceedingly for her good nature, and
insinuated that she had probably arranged some agreeable surprize with
Adam.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                      THE VILLAGE CHURCH DESERTED.


"When a friend comes to visit me," said the Pastor, "I feel so happy;
and do you know why? In the first place, I enjoy myself more; people
may say what they will of the iniquity of the human heart, but the
pleasant feeling caused by entertaining a friend, is deeply imprinted
in every heart."

"And secondly?" asked Edward.

"In the second place," answered the Pastor, "when I have a guest, it is
an excuse to myself not to go out. The world is come to me, I travel
along the whole road with my visitor, so I earn the right to stay at
home."

It was with an indescribable feeling of satisfaction that the Pastor
said these words, after dinner, to his brother-in-law. The afternoon
was not far advanced, and yet twilight was fast approaching. If the
brother-in-law felt great reverence for the Pastor, that worthy man was
extremely pleased with the cheerful, sanguine, yet prudent character of
the young man. There are such youths still in the world; the miseries
of ennui and discontent, and the feeling of being constantly bored,
have not yet penetrated into every circle. Fresh youth once more blooms
in the world--different from what we once were, but with the germs of a
prosperous future. These were the Pastor's thoughts, while listening
with satisfaction to the young man's conversation; the pleasure he
experienced in looking at the handsome youth who had formerly been
under his care, and more especially his ingenuous nature and good
sentiments, produced in his heart the fondness of a father in the
highest sense. "You must marry some one who can sing with you," said he
to Edward; "it would be a pity to have a wife who could not make melody
along with you."

They continued to converse on various subjects, and Edward remarked,
that many young men formed an entirely false idea of the life of a
farmer, and therefore were ruined, both in mind and body. Being the son
of a councillor in a high position, he had himself suffered
considerably from the consequences of false representations, till he
learned from experience the necessity of taking a personal interest in
agriculture: he was now steward on the property of a nobleman, but had
just given up his situation, with a view to rent a farm, or to purchase
a small property.

In the midst of this conversation, they heard some persons knocking off
the snow from their shoes, at the house door. Three men were standing
below, who presently came up: they were the churchwardens.

"Edward, come into the next room," said his sister, adding, "This is my
brother, and this is Schilder-David, Herzbauer, and Wagner.

"Glad to see you, sir," said Schilder-David, shaking hands with Edward,
"but we beg you will stay where you are, Frau Pastorin; we should like
you and your brother too to hear what we have to say."

"Sit down," said the Pastor.

"Many thanks, but it is not necessary," said Schilder-David, who was
evidently spokesman. "Herr Pastor, we wish to say in few words what we
have heard in the village; who first brought the report, we don't know;
but you have often, Herr Pastor, impressed on us the propriety, on
hearing anything of a man that you would rather not believe, to go
straight to him, and to put the question direct to himself; so, no
offence, Herr Pastor, but is it true that you wish to leave us?"

"Yes."

For a time there was perfect stillness in the room, and at last
Schilder-David began again.

"Well: now I believe it, Herr Pastor. Before you came we had a Pastor
who disliked us, and whom we equally disliked--can anything be more
dreadful? How can Christian love, faith, and piety flourish, when he
who preaches the word of God, and he who hears it, have no mutually
kind feeling? It would be sad indeed if this were to be once more the
case; we know that there are some in the parish who vex the good heart
of our Pastor; but Herr Pastor, the gracious Lord would have spared
Sodom if even two just men had been found there, and you, Herr Pastor,
persist in leaving us because there are two or three wicked men among
us." Here Schilder-David paused, but as the Pastor made no reply, he
continued:--

"Herr Pastor, it is no use our telling you how you have grown into all
our hearts. If it is better for you to go elsewhere, we can but wish
you happy wherever you may be; but every man, woman, and child, in this
village, who ever met their Herr Pastor, feel as if they must give him
some proof of gratitude and love; as if they could not let him pass
with a simple good morning, or good evening: we heartily wish, Herr
Pastor, that there may be the same kindly feeling towards you in the
new place you are going to, and also that, if you persist in leaving
us, you will at least endeavour to provide us with--I don't say such a
man as yourself, for that we cannot hope for--but at all events with a
good man."

"Thank you, thank you," said the Pastor, "I will do what lies in my
power."

"No, no," said Herzbauer, "David has by no means said all we wanted:
our greatest wish is that the Herr Pastor should stay among us, and not
leave our village church deserted."

"I could not recall my application for another Cure, even if I wished
to do so."

"Then we hope the Herr Pastor will excuse us for having troubled him,"
said Wagner, with a certain feeling of pride, that he also had made a
little speech, and one by no means the least to the point.

The men left the room; the Pastorin however went down stairs with them,
and comforted them by saying, that their persuasions might perhaps not
be quite unavailing, and that she had nothing to do with her husband's
resolution, which she thought he now regretted; perhaps to-morrow what
they said might be more effectual, for he was very weary to day, having
been summoned to Roettmanshof during the night, for nothing, and less
than nothing.

"I did hear," said Schilder-David, "that they are all assembled at the
Forest Mill this very day to betroth Adam to Tony. I was unwilling to
believe it, but I do now, every word of it; the betrothal however they
shall find of no use, for we are resolved never to give up our just
claim."

The Pastorin returned into the room, where she found her husband and
her brother still sitting together in silence: none of them spoke a
single word. The evening bells rung out clear; indeed all the three
bells, for the Holy Festival was being rung in, and there was a
singular vibration too in the hearts of these three persons, though
inaudible to any human ear. At length the Pastorin said: "I shall
grieve when the time comes that I no longer hear these bells; what a
multiplicity of events they have rung forth for us!"

The Pastor still sat in silence at the window, and at last said, as if
speaking to himself: "The most trying thing is to resolve to leave what
we are accustomed to; as I have at last made up my mind to do so, both
in my own thoughts, and also to the knowledge of others, it would not
do for me now to retract my determination: I will see you again shortly
Edward."

So saying, the Pastor went into his study.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                            WHERE IS JOSEPH?


"Where is Joseph?" asked Schilder-David when he came home.

"He is not here."

"I sent him home however, when I went to speak to our Pastor."

"He is not come home."

"I daresay he is gone to see Haespele again; I will go and fetch him,"
said Martina rising from her chair.

"Don't fail to give him a good box on the ear, for running about alone
in such an independent way," said David to his daughter as she was
leaving the house.

Martina soon came back and said, "Joseph is neither at Haespele's nor in
the workshop."

"Where on earth can that tiresome boy be? I will go and look for him
myself."

The grandfather went out, and enquired for Joseph from house to house;
no one knew anything of him; Schilder-David went home again, thinking
that no doubt he should find the boy arrived before him.

"But where is Joseph?" said Martina to her father, when he entered the
room on the ground floor, that served as a kitchen.

"He is sure to be here very soon," said the grandfather; going however
through the whole house, and searching every corner of it; he called up
to his workshop in the loft the name of Joseph, and felt quite startled
by the hollow echo; he shoved aside presses, behind which neither man
nor boy could have been hidden, and he even opened the cover of the
watercourse, behind the house, forgetting that it was frozen over, and
nobody could possibly fall into it. Just as he returned to the house he
met Haespele, bringing home Joseph's new boots: he told him privately
that he was looking for the boy, and that he was in great trouble lest
something should have happened to the child; he did not know what, but
he felt very uneasy about him.

"Did you look for him at the old Bugler's? I heard him blowing away,
and beautifully too; at this moment, depend upon it, Joseph is with
him; here are his boots, I will go and fetch the boy."

The worthy Haespele ran quickly down the village, to a stocking weaver's
who was seated in his room, practising some new tunes on the French
horn. It sounded very pretty through the stillness of the night, when a
man's own footsteps were inaudible in the thick snow.

It was very natural that Joseph should prefer being with the old horn
player, to sitting at home; but he was not there either. On his way,
Haespele mentioned to his neighbours that he was in search of Joseph; no
one had seen him, and nowhere was he to be found! Haespele returned to
David with this distressing intelligence, and the latter said, "Keep
quiet, and not a word before the women, or there will be a fine
howling; stay here for a little, he has very probably hid himself, and
perhaps intends to come here with the Three Holy Kings--I mean the
masks, who go about on this evening--I daresay he thinks it would be
fine fun; but I'll show him another sort of fun when I catch him."

David sat down again, and with apparent composure, whistled, and kept
waving his hand in the air, as if in anticipation of the strokes of the
birch rod he fully intended to administer to the little culprit.

"I will stay quietly where I am," said he, as if addressing himself; so
he filled his pipe and went on smoking, muttering occasionally, what a
good-for-nothing little scamp Joseph was, but he would take care he
should be well punished for all the anxiety he had caused. David took
up his Bible, and continued to read on from the place where he had
stopped the day before; it was in the 2nd book of Samuel, 12th chapter,
where King David mourns for his sick child. This did not contribute to
tranquillize the reader, so he got up and went out and in, listening
anxiously. The bells were all merrily ringing in the Festival--surely
he must come soon now--but no one came. There was no longer a
possibility of secresy; David went to every house in the village to the
right, and Haespele the same to the left. They both met again at David's
house. The procession of the Three Holy Kings passed along; Joseph was
not with them; concealment was now out of the question.

"Martina, our Joseph has disappeared," said the grandfather, and
Martina uttered a loud cry of grief, exclaiming:--

"This was why he woke me three times last night and asked; 'Mother, is
it not yet light?' Joseph! Joseph! Joseph! where are you?" shouted she
through the whole house, up the hill, and all along the village, in the
garden, and among the fields.

"Oh! if he is lost, I shall die," said David; "I shall never hear the
New Year rung in, and the tree I bought to make clock cases of, may be
sawed up for my coffin, and I laid in it."

But Martina did not hear her father's lamentations, for she had rushed
out of the house long since; David's neckcloth felt too tight, and he
snatched it off, his face looking quite distorted, for he wished to
suppress his tears, and yet could not. Suddenly he thought to himself,
"Joseph must be in the church!" he hurried to the church, the door of
which was open, as they were preparing it for midnight service. The
schoolmaster was walking about alone, with a single candle, and placing
quantities of lights on the altar.

"Joseph! Joseph! are you here?" cried David, on the threshold of the
church; the sound vibrated loudly. The candle fell out of the
schoolmaster's hand, and he answered, trembling, "There is no one here
but myself--what is the matter?"


"You allowed the children to give him the nickname of 'The Foal,' so it
is your fault that he is gone off, and is nowhere to be found," cried
David, and hurried away. The schoolmaster was as much in the dark about
this reproach, as he now was in the church, where, after much groping
about, he at last found the wax taper.

The whole village collected together, and even the stocking weaver came
with his French horn, which, however, he quickly put under his old
military cloak, to prevent its getting wet. "I will blow the horn all
through the village," said he, "and then he will come."

"No!" said one. "The old Roettmaennin has no doubt caused him to be
stolen, hoping to force you, Martina, to give up Adam, for this very
afternoon he was betrothed to the Forest Miller's Tony; one of the
miller's men was here, and told us all about it."

"Don't drive me out of my senses," cried Martina. "Joseph! Joseph!
come! oh, come! your mother is calling you!"

While they were still standing clustered together, a strange looking
little man was seen coming up the valley, hung all round and round with
huge bundles protruding on every side. It was the hatter from the next
town, bringing for the holidays, a collection of newly dressed
three-cornered hats into the village.

"What is going on here?" asked the little man.

"We are looking for a child--Joseph--he has disappeared."

"How old is the child?"

"Six years old."

"I met a fine boy with a rosy face, and fair curly hair."

"Yes, yes, that must have been Joseph; for God's sake tell me where he
is," said Martina, rushing up to the man so eagerly, that all his hats
tumbled down into the snow.

"Gently, gently! I have not got him in my bundles. Below there, in the
wood, I all at once met a boy; I asked him: 'What are you doing here
alone, and night beginning to fall? where are you going to?' 'To meet
my father, who is coming up this road; did you not see him?' 'What is
your father like?' 'Big and strong.' 'I have not seen him--come home
with me, child.' 'No, I am coming home with my father.' I took hold of
the child, and tried to bring him with me by force, but he being wild
and obstinate, gave me the slip, and darted off like a deer, and I
heard him still calling, far into the wood, 'Father! father!'"

"That was certainly Joseph; for God's sake let us go after him."

"We will all go--all!"

"Stop!" said Schilder-David, coming forward; "hatter, will you go with
us?"

"I cannot, for I am so weary, I can scarcely set one foot before the
other; besides, it would be of no use, for it is more than an hour
since I saw the child; I stopped for some time at the Meierhof; and who
knows where the child may be now; I can tell you exactly where I met
him--in the Otterswald Wood, close to the river, where the large
spreading beech stands. It is the only very large tree there, and you
all know it."

"Very well," said Schilder-David, striving to be composed; "I shall
take good care to break a branch off that tree, to make Joseph remember
it."

"No! no, you are not to beat him!" exclaimed Martina--she did not like
to say, that this was the very same beech tree, where Adam had spoken
to her for the first time; and perhaps her child might at that very
moment be lying under it--frozen to death.

"It is night, and we can see nothing, and the snow is falling faster
than ever," cried Haespele; "fetch torches, ring the alarm bell; we must
ask the Pastor to let us do so; come straight to the Parsonage."

Martina, however, was taken home, and when she saw the boots on the
table, she sobbed more than ever, saying: "Alas! how proud he was of
them, and now his dear little feet are frozen--cold--dead!"

The women round Martina tried to comfort her, and one of them said,
with the kindest intentions, that to be frozen to death was the easiest
of all deaths; it was simply falling asleep, and never awaking.

"He would fall asleep on earth, to awake in Heaven," said the poor
mother, weeping bitterly. "My Joseph prophesied it himself; he was too
wise, too good, and went to meet his father. No, I will not die! when
Adam goes to church with his bride, he shall hear my Joseph cry out
from above, 'No!' and--he called 'father! father!' his father did not
answer him; he did not know his voice--but day and night he will know
it now. So long as he lives it will sound in his ears, that his child
was frozen to death in his own wood; he need not go out and try to wrap
him up now--too late--too late! his heart must be as hard as a stone!
and there is the wooden horse my boy played with; it looks pitifully at
me, though only wood; but the father is of wood too, he has no pity, he
has killed his child. How often have I seen him holding out bread to
his wooden horse! Oh! he had such a kind heart! oh! Joseph, Joseph!"

One of the women whispered to the other: "It would be a happy thing if
he were only frozen to death, for a huge wolf is prowling about in the
wood, and who knows if it has not torn the child to pieces." Though
this was said in so low a voice, the ears of those who grieve are
wonderfully acute; in the midst of her loud lamentations, Martina
caught the words, and suddenly screamed out "The wolf, the wolf!" she
clenched her hands and said, convulsively, "Oh! that I could strangle
it with my own hands!" and looking at Leegart, she said, sobbing, "Oh!
Leegart! Leegart! why do you sit sewing there at the darling's jacket,
when the child is dead?"

"I did not hear a syllable; don't blame me; I heard nothing; you would
not say a word; I asked three times, and no one answered. You know I
have no superstition--nothing is so silly as to be superstitious; still
there is no doubt of the fact, that so long as you go on either sewing
or spinning for any one, that person cannot die. There was once a
king----" and in the midst of all the distress and confusion, Leegart
coolly related the story of Penelope and Ulysses, with some singular
additions of her own; saying that Penelope had worked indefatigably at
her web, but undid at night what she had done by day, and thus saved
the life of her husband, who was in America.

Leegart was afraid, and not without cause, that in the agitation of the
moment, her tale was not very distinctly heard; she acted, therefore,
prudently, in proceeding with her story without pausing, or even
looking up. When she was once seated, it was well known that she never
left her chair till her time was up, and when she once began to tell a
story, she went on steadily to the very end; indeed, if the house had
taken fire, it was very doubtful whether she would have moved. We must
hope, therefore, that the fire will be kind enough to wait till
Leegart's hour for departure is come.

While Martina was lamenting with the women in the house, the whole
troop of men, had arrived at the Parsonage, and Haespele offered to be
spokesman. The children, too, begged hard to be allowed to go with the
rest to look for Joseph, but their mothers began to cry and to hold
them back, while the fathers shook them off impatiently, and scolded
them soundly into the bargain. The decrepit old men, who had crept
forth from their snug corners beside the stove, took the women and
children home with them.

It looked like the vanguard of an army advancing on the foe--but where
was the foe? There were some, however, who declared that it was utterly
absurd to seek a child in the forest, in such a storm and in such
blinding snow; it would be exactly like looking for a needle in a
haystack. Haespele, however, called out, "Those who don't like to go
with us can stay behind, there is no need to coax any one to go." Not
one person left them. Haespele went up stairs and entreated the Pastor
to allow the alarm bell to be rung. The Pastor was much distressed on
hearing about Joseph, but said, he could not permit the alarm bell to
be sounded, for it would terrify the neighbouring parishes without
sufficient cause, and make them reluctant perhaps to give their
assistance on some future occasion.

"It is good of you to go in such numbers to seek Joseph; I am glad to
see it," said he in conclusion.

"There is not a single young healthy man in the village staying
behind," said Haespele.

"I, however, am obliged to remain here," said the Pastor with a smile;
"the Roettmaennin occupied all my time last night, and I must be ready
for midnight service in the church--but we will all pray for those who
are in the forest."

"I will go instead of you," said his brother-in-law. "Who is your
leader?"

"We have none; will you be so good as to be our conductor, Herr
brother-in-law?"

All laughed, for Haespele, not knowing the young farmer's name,
designated him simply as the Pastor's brother-in-law.

"My name is Brand," said Edward; "I know the path, for I was there
to-day."

"The Pastorin's brother is going with us," was soon whispered into the
street, and everyone was pleased. Haespele was right; with the exception
of the sick and decrepit, every man in the village was present--they
were all standing at the door with torches, iron spikes, ladders, axes,
and long ropes.

"Is there any one here who can make a signal?" asked Edward. The
stocking weaver drew his horn from under his cloak. The instrument did
not shine brighter in the torchlight than the face of the stocking
weaver, who had suddenly become so important a personage.

"Good! keep close to me. According to my ideas this is the best plan:
the bugler is to go with me to the Reitersberg, where we will light a
fire, and then let all disperse two and two; not one alone. Whoever
finds Joseph, must either bring him to us on the Reitersberg, or at
least any tidings of him. Three loud long blasts of the horn will be
heard at intervals, so long as Joseph is not found; but as soon as we
find him, three short notes will be sounded, and continued till we are
all reassembled. But what would be still better; I have my gun with me,
are there any others in the village?"

"Certainly there are."

"Then go and fetch several, and when Joseph is found, we will fire
three consecutive shots. If we were not to do that, very possibly some
of your good people might still be running about in the snow and cold,
long after Joseph was found."

"He is right--a capital notion! Just like the brother of our Frau
Pastorin."

The young farmer smiled, and continued: "One thing more: we have
coverlets and mattrasses with us. Is there any dog in the village that
knows Joseph?"


"They all know him, and love him. You know Joseph, don't you, Blitz?"
said Haespele to a large dog at his heels.

The huge yellow dog answered by a loud bark, and a wag of his tail.

"Very well," exclaimed Edward, "let loose the dogs then."

"And we will hang lanterns round their necks, and round our own the
bells of the cows, and those of our teams."

Every one had a fresh suggestion to make, so it was fortunate that the
various opinions were concentrated into one by their leader.

"Now give us once more the signal, that we may all know it thoroughly,"
said Edward; and the stocking weaver blew his horn with all his might.

Scarcely had the sound died away, when Martina came running up and
exclaimed: "Here are his clothes."

"Let the dogs smell the clothes," said Edward.

Martina would have been almost knocked down by the dogs who surrounded
her, if Haespele had not had the sense to take the bundle from her.

"Call to the dogs,--'Seek Joseph'!" commanded Edward; "and now forward!
march! Joseph is our battle cry."

"Halt!" shouted a deep powerful voice from the opposite side, "what is
the matter?"

"Adam," cried Martina, rushing up to him, "what have you there? have
you found our Joseph?"

"Our Joseph! what do you mean? This is the wolf that I killed with my
cudgel."

"The wolf that tore our child to pieces," cried Martina, clenching her
hands in agony, and staring down at the dead animal. Haespele, very
properly, told Adam in few words what had occurred. Adam was still
holding the animal by the neck, and now he shook the dead creature
violently, and hurled it with superhuman strength far away over the
ditch into the field. Then he said:--

"I make a solemn vow here, before you all, that whether our child is
found or not, my Martina is mine for life or death. May God forgive me
for having been so long a weak undecided, good-for-nothing fellow! but
listen to me, men all. Each of you may strike me in the face if I do
not take my Martina to my own house, even if father, mother, and the
whole world are against it."

"For heaven's sake, don't talk of this just now," said Martina, hiding
her face on Adam's breast, and bursting for the first time into tears;
Adam laid his hand fondly on her head, his breast heaving with the
thick sobs which closely followed each other. Never did any one see
Adam weep but that once.

The whole assemblage, at a silent signal from Edward, had gone forward
with their bells, dogs, and torches; Haespele alone stayed behind with
the unhappy parents, and when Adam looked up, large tears were
glittering in his eyes in the light of the torch. Adam, however, stood
erect, and said energetically: "Come, Martina, we shall certainly find
him. I cannot think that he is dead; I heard him calling in the wood; I
could not believe that it was really a human voice, and yet it was the
voice of my child."

"And how often he called you during the night, and you could not hear
him!"

"If he is still alive, I will cherish henceforth every word of his."

"God grant it! Amen," said Haespele in a low voice, and went on before
them with his torch; and the two followed him close together.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                         A TROOP OF HOBGOBLINS.


"Let me carry the clothes; give me his clothes," said Adam, as they
went along.

"No, I cannot part with them, they are all I now have belonging to him,
and I have the new boots in the bundle, that he never wore, and in my
hurry I brought his little wooden horse, too."

"Does he like horses? then he will like me also."

"Oh! do not speak so lightly; remember that he may be dead."

"The child may have lost himself in the wood, and yet not be dead; and
who knows whether he may not be at home at this moment, having gone of
his own accord, or some one have brought him home."

As a token of gratitude for these consoling words, Martina placed the
bundle of clothes on Adam's arm, saying, "Carry them for me." When they
passed by a weeping willow close to the road, which looked very
singular, its drooping branches all hung with snow and glittering in
the torchlight, Martina continued: "Do you see that tree? When our
Joseph was not quite three years old, I was walking here with him, and
on seeing the leaves hanging down, he said, 'Mother! that tree is
raining leaves.' He often spoke such strange things, that it was quite
puzzling to know whether one was on earth or in heaven, and what one
could do, or ought to do with him; and he is grown so strong, so very
strong; I was obliged to use all my strength when I wished to hold
him--and now to die such a death! it is too dreadful. Joseph! Joseph!
my darling Joseph! Oh! where are you now? I am here, your mother and
your father too. Joseph! Joseph! oh come! Call him, Adam, can't you
shout out his name?"

"Joseph! Joseph!" called Adam with his powerful voice, "My child! come
to me; Joseph! Joseph!" and Adam, who once trembled to pronounce the
child's name even secretly, now shouted it loudly in the wood. Soon,
however, he desisted, and said, "It is no use, Martina; try to be
quiet, or you will make yourself ill."

"If my Joseph is dead, I don't care to live either; I care for nothing
more in this world."

"I cannot believe that, Martina; surely you have some love for me
still."

"Oh heavens! don't wrangle with me just now," said Martina sorrowfully.
For a long time neither spoke a word. Haespele proved a good mediator,
for he came up to Martina and begged her to take a mouthful of the
Kirschwasser that he had most thoughtfully brought for Joseph.

"No, no, I need nothing. I cannot take what the child may require."

"Do take a single mouthful," entreated Adam, as tenderly as his rough
voice could be modulated. "Remember, our Joseph cannot drink it all if
we find him."

"If we find him? Why do you say that? You know something, and are
keeping it from me; I feel sure that you know he is dead."

"I know nothing whatever--as little as you do yourself. I do beg you
will take one mouthful of the Kirschwasser."

"Ah! if my Joseph had it, it might restore him to life. I need
nothing--leave me in peace." But Adam persisted till Martina took some,
and this was a good opportunity for him to get hold of her hand again,
and then they pursued their way hand in hand.

Martina spoke very low, and told Adam what a singularly reserved boy
Joseph was; and that he had often whispered things to her, that he
might have quite well said loud out before everybody; but his
peculiarity was, to prefer saying things secretly; and no doubt he had
something secret to tell his father, and then he would have been able
to discern how it made you creep, when Joseph with his warm breath said
something close to your ear. "His warm breath is now frozen," added
she, wringing her hands.

Soon she suddenly seized Adam's arm, saying passionately, "Look! there
is the very rock, where once on a time I wished to die along with him,
when Leegart found me. If we had died together then, before he came
into the world, it might have been better for both of us. Oh! where is
he now? perhaps he is lying two steps from us, and yet we cannot see
him, and he cannot hear us. I will go from hill to hill, to the top of
every rock, and down into every valley, to seek my boy."

"Try to be more composed," said Adam, kindly; but Martina's excitement
every instant increased, and she turned hastily to him saying:--

"You are to blame! a father can deny his child, and pass him by as if
he were nothing to him in this world--but a mother--never! You did
this!"

"Why do you reproach me at such a moment as this?"

"I do not reproach you. Why are you so cruel?"

"I am neither unkind nor cruel--only do try to command your feelings;
from this day forth all your sorrows shall cease. Come closer to me, my
Martina!"


"No, no, I cannot rest!" cried Martina, suddenly, after having leant on
Adam for a few minutes--"I cannot--Oh, gracious Father! do with me what
thou wilt, only do not deprive me of my child, my Joseph; he is
innocent; I alone am guilty--this man and I."

She went some steps from Adam, as if she could not bear his vicinity;
she no longer shed tears, but she sobbed convulsively with dry eyes, as
if her heart would break.

The scene in the wood was like the procession of the "Wild Huntsman;"
the men with torches and lanterns, and their eager shouts and cries,
and cracking of whips, and ringing of bells; and the dogs, too,
carrying lanterns round their necks, and rushing along the ravines
barking, and then galloping up the hills, still barking and pressing
forwards, till recalled by the voice of their masters. It was fortunate
that such good order was maintained. No one could recognise his
neighbour, for each man was a moving mass of snow, and the hills and
rocks looked down by the torchlight in amazement, at the men who had
come there to shout out, and seek a young child.

"See, how all the village loved him!" said Martina to Adam, relating to
him how the boy had wakened her on the previous night, three times, to
ask which way his father would come; and she reproached herself
severely for having listened to Leegart, and sent him out of the house
alone; she might have known that something dreadful was sure to occur
on this day.

Adam was sadly perplexed, and did not know what to say; and he was more
sad than ever when he thought of the Forest Mill, where they were all
sitting waiting for him, and remembered the treachery towards Martina
he had been persuaded to commit this very day.

Suddenly a cry of joy was heard--"What is it? what is it?" "God be
praised, they have found him!" "Where? where?" The smith came up, out
of breath, to Adam and Martina. "Here is his cap; we shall find him
now, sure enough."

Martina seized the dripping cap, and shed scalding tears over it.
"Heavens! he is now without a cap, and the snow is lying on his head,
if he is still in life."

Martina passed her hand over her face, and stared at the smith, who
certainly looked a strange monster. He had not taken time to wash his
sooty face, and now the snow had drawn all sorts of strange figures on
it, and his red beard was hanging full of icicles.

"You must remain on the straight road, that we may be able to find you
immediately," said the smith, and turning to go away, he added, "I
think this night we have earned from you the right to be well supplied
with good liquor at your wedding."

It must certainly be a set of hobgoblins dispersed in the forest;
and there was a man in the wood who saw them, as large as life.
Speidel-Roettmann, who had followed his son, had made a false step, and
rolled down the precipice. When he reached the bottom he became sober
all at once. He had received no injury whatever. He went on a long way
on the frozen stream, and the rocks and trees towered above him like
gigantic monsters. Fresh snow fell thickly on him every instant, and at
last he became so confused, that he did not know whether he was going
up or down the stream. He tried to break the ice with a stone, to find
out in what direction the current of the stream was flowing, so that he
might know which way to proceed, but he could not loosen one of the
stones. The whole world seemed iron-bound, and no help near. Well! here
at last is an opening, here is a path in the forest. He climbs up,
often slipping backwards, and almost entirely hidden by masses of snow;
but he does not lose heart. Speidel-Roettmann's strength is now to be
put to the proof. He succeeds in getting to the top of the rising
ground--he is right: here is a path. As he grasps the ground for the
last time, he stumbles over something; it is a pipe--it is Adam's pipe.
So he must have gone this way; now he will come up with him--which way
is he gone? right, or left? The traces of his footsteps have been
already effaced by the falling snow. Speidel-Roettmann takes the path to
the right; then it suddenly seems to him that the left must certainly
be the best way, so he turns back; and then goes forward again, up and
down, as if a will-o'-the-wisp were leading him hither and thither.
Hark! a sound of horns, and whips, and barking of dogs;--what can it
be? Heavenly powers! it is the Wild Huntsman! It is himself, on his
gallant grey, with his spectre followers, shouting, and yelling, and
blowing the horn; and in the midst of the hubbub there are screams as
if from thousands of little children; and if any unlucky being were to
look up at him as he dashes past, he would cut his head as clean off as
if it were a turnip. All the terrors of the infernal regions assail
Speidel-Roettmann. He had, indeed, often boasted that the talk about
witches, and spectres, and hobgoblins, was only lies and nonsense; but
now every hair on his head stands on end; he remembers that in bygone
days men were quite as wise as at present, and they believed it all.
"Here he comes! Forgive me for not believing a word of it till now. I
will--" Speidel-Roettmann rushes along the path into the wood, and
throws himself down on the ground on his face, that the Wild Huntsman
may gallop over him without throttling him. So he lies still and hears
the fiends rush past. He clutches the snowy moss with his hand, and the
moss does not give way. It is a comfort that something in the world
still holds fast. Hold on! hold on! or you may be in a moment lifted up
in the air, and placed on the top of a tree, or who knows where? and
your face twisted entirely round, and you must go about with it in that
fashion as long as you live. And he feels as if he were mocked, and
some one said to him, "Is not this wood your own property? but in spite
of all your foresters, and all your keepers, you cannot prevent the
Wild Huntsman galloping through it. Do you hear a child's voice? do you
know that voice?"

Speidel-Roettmann has entirely lost his head--the snow in which he had
buried his face melts from the warmth of his breath, but something
melts also in his hard heart; and face to face with death, he calls out
from the snowy moss, "Joseph!" as if that word had the power to save
him. "I solemnly vow I will," he goes on muttering to himself. It has
suddenly flashed across his thoughts, that there lived a child on earth
to whom he had been guilty of great injustice, and that it is for this
he hears such groans and cries in the air. He wishes to call back his
son, who is in turn striving to recall his son. This is like a chain
attached to another chain, and so the links go on.

"I yield! set me free! keep the child!" With these words he at last
ventured to raise his head a little. The noise and shouts and cries
sounded now further away.

"Who are you? who are you?" cries suddenly a figure, seizing him
roughly, not like a man, but like an evil spirit, or the claws of a
wild beast, so savage is the grasp.

"I am a miserable sinner! I am the Roettmann--let me go; be merciful!"

"So, I have got hold of you at last!" exclaimed the figure, and knelt
down on his breast. "You shall die, for you have killed my grandson,
and disowned him, and left him to want and misery."

"How? what? is it you, David?"

"Yes, you shall know first who is going to split your head with this
axe--it is I, Schilder-David. Yes, accursed Goliah, I have got you down
on the ground, and you shall die."

Speidel Roettmann's strength and courage revived, after a very short
deliberation. "Oh, ho! not much fear of him!" and his hand speedily
followed his thoughts. He seized with one hand the man who was kneeling
on him, and with the other drew forth the sharp knife he always carried
on him, and cried out, "Let go, David! let go: or I'll stab you to the
heart!"

"Your evil deeds are come to an end," cried David, snatching the knife
out of his hand; but Roettmann succeeded in getting on his feet, and
David quickly lay under him on the ground.

"Now, do you see!" exclaimed Roettmann, triumphantly, "I can give you
the finishing stroke."

"Do so, root out the whole family--you have killed my Joseph, kill me
too."

"Stand up! I will do you no harm," answered Roettmann; "I don't know
whether it is you that are bewitched, or myself, or the whole world.
What on earth brings you here?--who are those in the forest?"

David, breathing hard all the time, told what had occurred; but adding,
"I have no business to talk to you at all; both you and your son
deserve to die. I will not say another word to you; one of us shall
remain on this spot; stab me if you like, I shall be glad to leave this
wicked world for I have nothing left to care for now in it." With these
words Schilder-David rushed on Speidel-Roettmann, but the latter seized
the old man's arms with such a powerful grasp, that they were as
immoveable as if fastened into a vice.

"I pity you," said Roettmann.

"I don't want your pity; you are not worthy to be spoken to by an
honest man, you hard-hearted villain! you carry your head high enough;
and why not? for the door into Hell is so high, that you need not stoop
to get through it."

"Abuse me as much as you please, I am stronger than you; but now listen
to what I am about to say. You see that no one can force me to do a
thing; no man in the world can do that; but I wish to tell you this. I
need not stick to what I said, for no mortal man heard me, and as for
the Wild Huntsman and the hobgoblins, it is all nonsense and
superstition, and if I don't choose, I shall be none the worse. It is
no one's business but my own, and you have no right to know why, and
how, and where, I made the promise. This is my wood, and I am master
here, and if I find you here at night with your axe I can seize you, or
shoot you down if you try to escape--just as I think fit; but--this is
not what I wished to say; only once more remember that no one can force
my will, but I give in of my own accord, so that is settled; and here
is my hand on it; if the child is still alive, if we find him indeed at
all, either living or dead, you have my hand on it, I have nothing to
say against it."

"Against what!"

"You have my consent. When I reflect on the matter, I never was so
opposed to it; I was obliged to agree with my wife. I was wandering
here in the wood for I don't know how long, and when I fell down the
ravine, I thought the rocks covered with snow would fall on me to crush
me, and all at once I seemed to hear a child's voice calling 'Father!
father!' Now I know what it was, and I can't tell you how that voice
went to my heart, and I said to myself, if ever I can, I will; my Adam
shall marry his Martina. I promise faithfully he shall."

"It is too late to shut the stable door when the horse is stolen. There
is no more happiness or luck in the world. If you had but known the
child! he was an angel from Heaven! but alas! he is dead by this time,
and who knows where he is? There was a time when I thought I could not
bear to look any one in the face on account of the child, and now I
wish to leave this world because the boy is no longer in it. If I was
not worthy of such a grandson, you are far less so. I will have no
peace between us, you or I must die. Kill me on the spot I say, for
then I shall see my Joseph again in the next world."

David once more rushed on Roettmann, who, however, again held his arms
in such a fierce gripe that he could not stir. It seemed as if a
miracle must have occurred to soften Speidel-Roettmann's heart, for he
contrived at last to persuade David to go along with him to look for
Joseph.

"Joseph! your grandfather calls!" shouted David. Speidel-Roettmann
echoed the cry, and David looked round in astonishment several times to
see if it was really true that Speidel-Roettmann was calling to his
grandchild. David was the only person, who, contrary to orders, had
gone alone; now he had found a companion, and such a strange one!

The horn sounded from the hill, the torches and lanterns wandered in
all directions, the dogs barked, and rushed up and down the hill, the
herd bells rung, and the two grandfathers both went along, as if they
had walked all their lives together in peace and amity; at last they
saw a light shining at a distance; the light did not move, it must be
in some house; so they directed their steps towards it.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                          LOST IN THE FOREST.


In the meanwhile Schilder-David's house seemed to be no longer a small
house, belonging to a small family. Every one went in and out, and many
left the door standing open, which Schilder-David's wife invariably
gently closed without saying one word; indeed she did not even object
to the neighbours for forgetting to knock off the snow from their feet,
and the floor of the room was like a small lake; she only placed fresh
cloths on the place and wrung them out into a pail, which she emptied
at the door.

Leegart drew the footstool, on which she placed her feet, closer to
her, to prevent any of the women seated round the table having any
share of it; for Leegart was not at all accustomed to sit in a damp
room, more especially in such a thoroughfare as Schilder-David's room
was turned into on this particular day.

David's wife always kept a fierce fire in the stove--the heat was
positively stifling; but Leegart had the art of keeping a whole
audience awake, and herself into the bargain.

While all the community were rushing about in the night and in the
snow, on rocks and in ravines, and the whole village in a state of
excitement, there were only two objects that remained steady and
stationary and kept time together--these were the clock on the church
tower, and Leegart beside her huge pincushion.

Martina had left the room along with the men, but several women
remained there. They complained loudly that their husbands were so rash
as to expose their lives to danger, for the sake of one single child,
perhaps only to cause their own children to suffer want and misery.
Leegart, however, while waxing her thread, said, "Indeed it is very
dreadful to lose your way in the forest. I can well tell you about it,
for it happened to me once in my life, but I found that once quite
enough. For God's sake, never, never be tempted to take a near cut
through the wood, unless you are thoroughly acquainted with every
corner of it. A short cut is the Devil's cut. Am I right or not? It
takes a very short cut to go to the Devil. I remember it as if it were
only yesterday; and who knows whether poor Joseph may not have done the
very same thing. I went through that very forest, and the hatter met
the boy at the large beech tree, which I also passed. God forbid that
the child should have to go as far as I did, before I found my way
back! It was on the Sunday after All Saints--no, it was on a Monday; at
all events it was a holiday, St. Peters and St. Paul's. We don't keep
it holy, but the Catholics do. I left home on a fine bright day,
carrying nothing with me but a velvet cap in a handkerchief for
Holderstein's daughter, in Wenger. You know who I mean. She is now a
widow: they say she is going to marry a very young man, who lives near
Neustaedtle; for she went there two Sundays following, and he walked
back with her both times: it is not very wise in her to marry such a
boy. At the time I speak of, she was betrothed to her first husband, a
nephew of the Forest Miller--I mean of the old miller. So I set out and
went first along the valley. It was a very fine season; it is long
since we have had one like it--just the quantity of rain and sunshine
that we required. In the wood I met the beadle's children--the boy and
Maidli. The boy became a soldier, and was shot by the Freischaerfer.
Maidli lives in Elsass, where they say she is happily married. They
were herding an old and a young goat, beside the hedge where there are
so many hazel nuts. So I asked the children--I don't know why--if there
was not a nearer path to Wenger. 'Yes, indeed,' said the children. 'I
must not keep on the beaten track; but when I came to the group of
juniper trees, turn to the left through the wood.' I wanted one of the
children to show me the way, that I might be quite sure of the right
road. I can't tell the reason, but I somehow anticipated evil; but the
children were so stupid, that they would neither go alone nor together
with me. So I walked on, and when I arrived at the wood, where the
Roessleswirth has now his field--at the time it was still part of the
wood--I called out to the children below to know if I was on the right
path, and they shouted 'Yes;' at least I imagined I heard them say so.
So I went on, and it was very cool and pleasant in the forest I thought
it so fortunate that I was now in the shade of the wood, for the heat
was so great outside. It was about ten o'clock, and here it was quite a
cool fresh morning still. Such a walk is very beneficial to any one
obliged to be constantly sitting and working; and at that time I was
quite young, and I could run and jump about like a foal. I saw a
quantity of strawberries beside the hornbeam hedge; I gathered a few,
but did not stop long, and soon went forward. I climbed, and climbed I
don't know how long, and could see nothing; and the path went sometimes
up hill and sometimes down. What could be the reason? Had I got into a
labyrinth? The proverb says of those who are on a wrong path, that they
have got into a labyrinth, and indeed this was one, for it seemed to
lead nowhere. I did not know this when I entered it, but I soon found
it out, and to my cost too. Oh, nonsense! thought I, the time only
seems long to you, because you are so accustomed to sit still, that any
walk appears too much for you. I felt so tired, however, that I sat
down. Then I heard a slight rustling and something moving, and a dry
branch fell from the tree. And look, look! a squirrel, I declare. He
hangs on the trunk of the tree and peeps down at me with his quick
bright eyes and sharp muzzle. I watch him as he creeps up the tree; and
now there are two, and they frolic about and snap at each other. Whish!
quick as lightning!--now up, now down! I must say I have a particular
love for these little creatures; and I have my mother to thank for
that. She said to us a hundred times--'Children, look at all you see
attentively, for then you will be aroused wherever you go, and it costs
nothing; and you never can tell what use it may be of to you some day,
to observe closely what goes on round you.' But no one ought to allow
themselves to be detained on the way by anything, for it only tends to
perplex you still more. I went on and arrived at a fir-plantation: the
trees are so thick that it is quite dark there, but charmingly cool.
There is something lying on the ground--it is a stag asleep. I gave a
scream of terror, and the animal started up and fixed his great eyes on
me, as if to say--'You stupid thing, why do you come and disturb my
noonday's sleep?'

"I ran away as fast as I could; I fancied the stag was following me,
and then I fancied what I should do if he took me on his horns, and
threw me down the hill; and if a branch fell from a tree, I was so
terrified that I shook in every limb. God be praised! at last the wood
came to an end, and so many hundred butterflies I never saw in all my
life as there, and the meadow was quite red with flowers. I stood still
to enjoy the sight. A falcon was soaring high in the sky, screeching,
and I watched the bird as it flew along. A pretty sight, I must say; he
looked as if he were only swimming in the air--but now away! I must not
stop again; and surely it is all right at last, for I saw a small
footpath. Now, thought I, you are safe--now you can go on boldly, for
this must lead to where men are. I saw a bone button lying on the path,
I picked it up, and put it into my pocket; and it was lucky I did so,
for I had quite forgotten that I had still a piece of bread there. I
thought I never tasted anything better--no, not even at a wedding
feast. In an intricate wood like this, it seems as if you could no
longer imagine that men ever sow grain, and reap, and thresh, and
grind, and bake. The path was so narrow, that I was obliged to thrust
aside the branches before I could get through. And now I saw that the
path went straight down, as steep as the side of a house. Good heavens!
what if some wicked man were to come at this moment, and rob me, and
throw me down yonder; no one would ever find me again. No, no! was I
resolved to say to him; here, here is all I have; here is my silver
thimble, and fifteen kreuzers. You have it all now, so let me go, and I
will swear an oath never to betray you. Should I be forced to keep such
an oath? I think, for the sake of other people, I ought to tell what
has happened, that others may not be robbed as I have been. In my
terror I began to sing, but search in my head as I would, I could think
of no pious song except 'The grave is deep and still,' and that was
really too dismal. I therefore sang all sorts of gay, frolicsome songs,
although my heart was beating with fear. Thank Heaven! at last I got to
the top, and then a spacious, pretty level meadow lay before me; but by
this time I was much heated, so overheated that I did not know what to
do. My cheeks were burning, and if I had been dragged through water I
could not have been worse. I could not venture to sit down to rest, and
I could scarcely recover my breath sufficiently to proceed; and in the
meadow I heard the humming and buzzing of thousands and thousands of
bees. Gracious powers! suppose I were to put my foot on a bee's nest,
and they were all to fly out and settle on me, and I to become dizzy.
My mother told me how that is--you become quite dizzy, and the only
thing that can save you is to jump into the water; and there is no
water here. I wish there was some water, for I am frightfully thirsty.
What is the meaning of this? Does the path end here? And there is a
precipice; and there are the great wild rocks. Am I actually on the
rocks of the Rockenthal, where since the creation of the world no human
foot has ever trod? Here lie the forest trees decaying, and no man can
fetch them away. The birds alone know how things look up there. No,
surely I cannot have got so far as that, and yet my way home cannot lie
down in that direction. I called out--'Heavenly powers! where am I?'
And never did I hear an echo so distinct and beautiful as then, calling
out after me--'Where am I? where am I? where am I?' It sounded at least
seven times following, and just as if some one were dwelling on the
tones in the sky, loud and long; it proceeded from the rocky precipices
and the clefts like lovely music, as if something were singing the
words, but taking a longer breath than a man could do. I shouted out
the names of all those whom I loved, and all those who loved me. I
shouted, and shouted--I seemed to love all mankind. In such an
extremity as mine, all discord and strife are at an end. I called, and
called, but no one heard me--not a living soul. It is no good, I must
go on. I search about everywhere--famous! There is another path that
goes through the wood; but after pursuing it for a little way I found
that it again turned to the left. I thought, however, well! I will go
forward, and so I did; but once more I came to a wall of rock, with no
path whatever, so I crossed the meadow, and suddenly came on the edge
of a precipice going straight down into a fearful abyss. I started back
as far as I could, my head began to turn, and I felt as if the
precipice were dragging me thither to dash me over the rock. Then I
stood still, and thanked God that I was still on solid ground. A
yellowhammer sat on a tree above my head, singing so prettily, and when
I looked up at him he flew away to the opposite hill--yellowhammers
when they fly, raise their backs like a cat, and fly higher than the
spot on which they wish to alight, and then let themselves gently down.
A bird like that is very well off; he does not care either for hill or
valley. Oh! if I could only fly like him! I turned to the right. God be
thanked! I could see fields beyond the hills, and the valley looked
like a tray, or a flat pan. But, good heavens! am I on the famed Todten
Hof? I saw a lilac bush, and that is a proof that men either are, or
were here. Yes! the lilac in the ground, and the swallow in the air,
show that the dwellings of man are not far away. But no house is to be
seen, and all around there is a mysterious dim light, like that on the
day of the great eclipse; it is not day, and yet it is not night, and
the trees and hills seem trembling with fear. Alas, alas! I am actually
in the Todten Hof. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago a rich farmer
lived here, so rich and so godless that he and his wife and children
bathed every day in milk, and never gave a single drop to the
poor--they were even more wicked than the Roettmaennin. But in those days
our Lord thought fit to punish their sin, and one Sunday, when they
were playing at football in the meadow with cheeses, the earth suddenly
opened, and swallowed up the whole farm, men, and cattle. There is a
particular time, however, when they all wake up again, and show
themselves for, one single hour. It is not right to tell children such
histories, it only makes them superstitious. I am not at all
superstitious, besides it was still daylight; but there was no sun to
be seen in the sky, nothing but black clouds, and my hair really stood
on end. What terrified me most, was not the dread of the dead men
waking up again, but the dogs starting up out of the ground, and
beginning suddenly to bark--that would be very horrible. 'There's not a
word of truth in it,' I exclaimed, in a loud voice, far into the
valley, and this rather revived my courage. I thought, however, that my
best plan was to retrace my steps, and not to attempt to go to Wenger
that day; still going back was such a long journey, and I knew my way
back just as little as my way forward. I would have been quite ashamed
to show my face, if I had been obliged to go back, and say that I had
lost my way. I said to myself--'No, on I must go. If I do not reach
Wenger, at least I am sure to arrive at a house. Don't give way to
superstition, and it is still daylight, and tonight there is a full
moon; then you can go home when you have rested for a time, or you may
remain at Wenger. No one is expecting you.' Unluckily I live quite
alone; and it was a sad thought to me at that moment, that I was so
solitary and uncared-for. No one would inquire for me, or weep for me,
if I were lost I must say I could scarcely help crying; but no! said I
to myself, there are people who feel an interest in me, and how
frightened they will be, and yet how pleased, when I can relate to them
my adventures. Surely they will soon end now. I have quite enough to
tell them already, indeed more than enough; and tired, terribly tired I
was. Suddenly I heard a boy _jodeln_, on the hill above. In my fright I
never thought of _jodeln_, but I can _jodeln_, and right well too. In
my youth I could utter this peculiar cry louder than anyone. I could be
heard two miles off."

Leegart laid her hand on her cheek, and uttered a shrill, sharp cry,
rising like the sharp point of a mountain, and descending again into
the valley in scattered fragments. She could uplift her voice in the
most marvellous way for her years.

David's wife, who had not hitherto heard one word of the whole story,
started up from the bench beside the stove, and asked--"For Heaven's
sake! what is the matter?" The women present, and Leegart, had great
difficulty in pacifying her, and explaining why Leegart had uttered so
loud a cry. The old woman again sunk down on the bench, muttering--"I
am well rested now. I wish I could lend poor Martina my feet."

The women entreated Leegart to continue her story. She waxed her thread
afresh, and sewed the collar on over and over to the jacket, which had
in fact been finished for some time past; but she was resolved not to
leave off sewing, for nothing is more sure and certain, than that no
mortal man or child can die so long as any one is sewing for their
benefit. Moreover, Leegart's story kept them all awake, and they did
not wish to sleep till their husbands returned home, when they intended
all to go together to the midnight service in church.

After Leegart had quietly blown her nose, she resumed--"So I began to
_jodeln_, and the boy answered me, as if we were doing it for pleasure.
I called out--'Which is the right road?' but his only answer was to
_jodeln_ again. 'Go to the deuce with your _jodeln_,' said I. I felt
afraid when I had said this, but I cannot deny that I did say it. Come,
I see a fresh path leading through the wood. I truly hope and trust it
is not a labyrinth this time; it is wet enough, but among these thick
trees it probably is never dry all the year round. Here is a clear
spring. If I could only be able to drink some water; but all I contrive
to get is wet feet. I followed the path into the wood, and soon it was
as soft as a bed underfoot, and the moss so deep, that since the
beginning of the world I felt sure no single handful of it had ever
been plucked; indeed, who was likely to mount up here to get it? The
path is no longer wet, and down the hill it seems dry enough; but all
trace of a path has disappeared. In a fir wood you cannot see the
traces of footsteps, and my shoes were as slippery as if they had been
polished. Then I caught on a prickly thorn, and tore my feet till they
bled. No matter. God be thanked! here I saw a piece of brick lying on
the ground. I lifted it up, and found it really was a brick. So far
well, for it was a proof that human beings must have been here; bricks
don't grow of their own accord. The finest diamond could not have been
more welcome to me than this brick. I went on my way quite
tranquillized, and I did not even start on seeing an adder lying coiled
up in the sun; I threw my brick at him, and he slipped away in a hurry.
Oh! what a lot of strawberries here!--no one gathers them; for no one
is likely to be here who has not lost their way, and as for me, stupid,
silly creature, I dare not venture to pluck some to quench my thirst,
because I have an idea that the adder has poisoned all the
strawberries. Good! I saw a dry channel on the face of the bank where
the trees, when felled, are slid down to the valley beneath. It surely
must go down to the river, and I suddenly thought I heard the rushing
of a stream; no doubt it is our river, but perhaps it may only be the
tops of the trees rustling in the wind. When you have lost your way
your hearing is not acute.

"Be it what it may, I resolved to run down the dry channel into the
valley. I lifted up my gown, still holding fast the handkerchief with
the cap in it. That packet had given me no end of trouble. When you are
forced to go perpetually up and down hill, carrying something in your
hand, even though it may not be very heavy, you feel as if one hand was
tied fast, and quite useless. Hush! I thought I heard a carriage in the
valley, so there must be a good road there; probably a one horse chaise
from Bern, or perhaps with two horses, it trots along so rapidly. Soon
it turned the corner, and then I no longer heard it at all.

"Gracious goodness! I had again allowed myself to be misled: it was only
the leaves rustling in the forest that I had heard, and now the sound
was far above me. I resolved not to listen to any other sounds, but to
do my best for myself. I tried to climb up again, but the way was so
steep that I found it impossible to get any footing on the bank. The
ground, too was so hard, from the trees being shoved down it, that I
could no longer dig my heels into the ground to get a firmer footing,
and so I tore a pair of shoes that had cost me two gulden. I was not to
get half of that for making the velvet cap. What matter! if I only get
home safe, without damage to life or limb! I only fell once. No one
should trust to anything they grasp, unless they have first proved its
strength. Broom has a good hold, it stands very fast in the soil: once
I seized hold of the roots of a tree, but the roots came away in my
hand, and I slipped back a long way. I closed my eyes: now I must die,
it is all over with me! I was brought up, however, by a rock, in the
middle of a large anthill. I managed to get away from it at last. I
went close to the dry channel on the side of the hill, and kept it in
view, and jumped from tree to tree; but it could scarcely be called
jumping, it was as if I had been cast forwards; my progress was just
like sparrows flying and clapping their wings, and then tumbling topsy
turvy in the air. I felt almost inclined to laugh when this thought
struck me, but it was no laughing matter. I thought to myself, this
will be a story for you to tell all your life long; and then it
occurred to me again--if you could talk about it, you would by that
time be well out of the scrape. I plucked up courage, and hoped it
would soon be all right, and that there was no fear of dying; only I
must get on. And so by dint of first seizing one branch, and then
another, I got forward by degrees, and only slipped back once more, but
I had no more tumbles. Fragments of rock rolled down beside me, jumping
into the air, and rebounding as they went, till at last I seemed to
hear them splash into the river. And I thought to myself that if I
fell, I should fall, just like them, to the bottom and into the river.
I stuck my nails into the earth, and crept on and on, and then sideways
into the underwood, close to the dry channel, where a footing was to be
found. Slowly, slowly, I crawled along. But stop! one step further and
I must have been killed! A rock as steep and high as a house, as if cut
out with a knife, overhung the river. I stopped short, and could have
seized the tops of the larches with my hands, but there was no path. I
went back two steps, and leant on a tree, and now my mind was easier. I
saw running water. God be praised and blessed for all His mercies! this
is the valley, and to have reached the valley is to have reached home.
How pleasant was the rushing of water to my ears--so calm, so peaceful,
so homelike! even seeing and hearing it quenched my thirst. I now
accomplished the greatest feat of the whole, when, after a long round,
I at last contrived, after much scrambling, to land in the valley. And
when I actually found myself there, then, and not till then, I thought
myself safe.

"Big drops of heat were running down my cheeks. I seated myself on a
large log of wood, lying on the ground, close to the very beech tree
where the hatter met Joseph. I was so overheated that I would gladly
have got rid of some of my wraps; but there was a very cool breeze in
the valley. The sun was just sinking behind the hills, and it was not
yet noon when I left home. I saw swallows flying about. Oh! what a
pleasant sight that was to me! And then I heard a cock crow. No
nightingale's song could sound half so sweet as the crowing of a cock
to a person who has lost his way. Well! I felt that I was now in the
world again. I heard a hen cackling: wherever an egg is laid, there is
sure to be a woman near. I heard a dog barking: where a dog barks a man
is not far off. I am once more among my fellow-creatures. Presently I
heard the rushing of a mill. Where am I, then?

"So long as I was wandering about and lost, even in my anguish, I never
shed a tear; but now, when I was safe, I for the first time became
fully aware of the dangers I had undergone, and I began to cry so
dreadfully that I thought I must dissolve away, and yet I could not
stop myself. Then, luckily, I saw a woodcutter coming along. I asked
him where I was. 'Roettmannshof is close by up there,' said the man,
passing on. I called after him to ask what o'clock it was. 'Past five.'
So I had actually been running about for seven hours. I could scarcely
believe it--seven mortal hours! If I had been superstitious, I should
have certainly believed that some wood demon had purposely led me
astray, for after seven o'clock has struck their delight is to mislead
people, and there are day spirits as well as night spirits. By
following the river I was sure to reach the Forest Mill; so I set off
towards it. Scarcely, however, had I gone two hundred paces when I
discovered that I had left my small parcel lying on the trunk of the
tree; and it had caused me so much trouble, and I had taken such care
of it! Gracious me! this too! Perhaps the woodcutter stole it, and I
shall be obliged to pay for the velvet cap, instead of receiving a sum
for making it. I ran back. Men are very good and honest, especially
when they don't know the value of a thing. My parcel had slipped down
behind the tree, and there I found it. The Forest Miller's wife was an
excellent woman, and her daughter Tony takes after her. The good
creature gave me dry clothes, and took as much care of me as if I had
been her sister. But for three days I felt as if all my limbs had been
dislocated. I started for home at last.

"When any one has been lost in a wood, it is scarcely possible to
realise that they have a home of their own--a place where your bed
stands, your looking-glass, your table, your chest of drawers, your
Psalm Book. Oh! what good old friends these all seem, and how you love
them all when you come home, and would gladly thank the tables and
chairs for having stood steadily in the same place, and quietly waited
for your return. And do you know the worst part of losing your
way?--that you are so laughed at when you tell the story afterwards.
But I wish no one--not even the Roettmaennin herself--to have such a
thing happen to them.

"It was a lovely summer's day, the Sunday after All Saints--no, not
Sunday, the Monday of Peter and Paul. Oh! what must it be to wander
about in the snow at night, and such a child, too! what could it do but
lie down and die! Oh heavens! I see the child before me, fast in the
snow, or in the cleft of a rock, its hands struggling, and its feet
frozen, so that it cannot move; and crying out, 'Mother!' and
listening, and hoping that some one will come, and no one answers but
the raven on the tree. And a hare runs past him--whish!--over the snow.
It is afraid of the child, and the child looks after the hare, and
forgets his misery for the moment. 'Mother! mother!' he goes on
calling, and it is a blessing that he falls asleep at last, never to
wake again. Good heavens! what an unhappy creature I am to have such
thoughts pass through my mind; and come they will, I can't help it; but
it runs in our family, and my mother was right in saying, that she knew
more than that two and two made four. And you know what happened to the
poor child that lies buried up yonder in Wenger. He was found in the
wood on the third day, quite covered with snow, and only close to his
heart was the snow melted. All those who saw it could not help sobbing
their very hearts out; and the mother became an idiot. The Herr Pastor
wrote a beautiful epitaph on the tombstone: I knew it once by heart,
but I could not repeat it now. And what happened to the hatter, who was
carrying a bundle of newly dyed hats on New Year's Day to Knusling? He
arrived at the Schroeckenhalde, the very precipice where I was when I
lost myself, and went on through the meadow; and there was such a fog
that you could not see your hand before you. He went round and round
the village at least seven times, and could never find his way in. The
bells were ringing, but they always seemed to him to come from the
other side, and so he never got there. At last he heard geese cackling,
so he followed the cry, and soon got safe to the village. But if you
could but have seen him! he looked just as if he had been buried, and
dug up again. But one thing I forgot to tell you, which was that the
Forest Miller"--

Here Leegart was interrupted by loud cries in front of the house.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                      A CHILD SEEKING HIS FATHER.


Leegart was absolute mistress of Schilder-David's house, on the days
when she came in the morning to stay till night; and therefore it was
but natural that she should dismiss little Joseph at noon; for in his
presence, it was not possible to discuss the many points that were
absolutely necessary to be discussed.

The news that the Pastor intended to leave the village came first to
Leegart; and now she proved that she richly merited the name she had
earned of _The Privy Councillor_. She sent instantly for two of the
churchwardens, and dispatched them, along with Schilder-David, to the
Pastor, in order to persuade him, by their united eloquence, to give up
his intention.

A servant from the Forest Mill had gone to fetch wine from the
Roessleswirth, and sugar and all sorts of spices from the grocer. This
occurrence was, of course, very soon known in the village, and speedily
found its way to the house of Schilder-David, whom it naturally
concerned most, and to Leegart, who was there, and who always contrived
to have the earliest intelligence about everything. Every one in the
village took a pride in bringing her news, and they considered it only
their simple duty to tell her all reports, being well paid for it
beforehand.

There was now a perfect strife as to who should concoct the mulled
wine, preparing for the betrothal of Adam and the Forest Miller's Tony.
Leegart added her share of spice mentally, but very different from that
you buy at the grocer's. She kept wishing that she could drop poison
into it, and that all who drank it should die. Her only difficulty was
whether to wish most for the death of the Roettmaennin or that of the
Forest Miller, who was about to sacrifice his child in such a criminal
manner, in order to save her marriage portion.

Martina, however, was vexed that Joseph should be sent out of the house
on this particular day. Still it was quite right that he should not
hear what they were going to talk about; and though she did not join in
Leegart's denunciations, she could not help crying and lamenting. She
sent Joseph back to Haespele, but Joseph had talked enough already of
the dog he seemed doomed never to get. He went along the village, and a
woman who met him said in a compassionate tone, "Ah! poor child! this
is an evil day for you," Joseph thought so too, as he had been pushed
out of the house. Presently another, by way of cloaking the bad news
adroitly, said, "Joseph, what is your father doing? Is it long since
you saw him?" The boy perceived that something was going on in the
village, and that it concerned him; he, however, kept his promise to
his mother, and told no one that his father was to come this very day.

It never ceased snowing, and Joseph, being quite alone on the ice, kept
sliding backwards and forwards on the ground, and constantly looking at
the path where his father was likely to come. But he found himself at
last so solitary, that he went to his grandfather's. He remained
standing outside the door of the workshop, for he heard two men talking
there. He knew their voices: they were the two churchwardens Wagner and
Harzbauer. They were saying that the cook at the Parsonage had let out
that the Pastor intended to leave the village, and that she believed
Roettmann and the Forest Miller were the chief cause of this; and then
they abused Adam, saying that he well deserved his nickname of _The
Horse_, for he allowed himself to be bridled and driven about, just as
other people chose.

The men now came out, along with Schilder-David, who said, "So you are
there, Joseph? Go home, and I will soon come to you."

His grandfather did not take him by the hand, as usual, but went with
his two friends to the Parsonage. Joseph stood still. But suddenly, as
if some one had whistled to him, he turned round, and ran off through
the village into the fields, to meet his father. "He will be so glad to
see me! and he will put me before him on his horse." Away ran the boy,
jumping merrily along through the fields, and into the wood. Every now
and then he wiped off the snow from his face and breast with his hands,
and making small snowballs, he threw them at particular trees that he
fixed upon, and never failed to hit them. He went more slowly when he
was once fairly in the wood, and often looked round. Two bullfinches
were perched on a mountain ash close to the path, twittering
incessantly, but as if half asleep, and every now and then picking the
red berries; but many more than they ate, were scattered on the ground.
"You are silly, greedy fellows, and destroy more than you eat," said
Joseph, and, despising the simple creatures, went on his way. Below in
the valley a bird was singing charmingly, and with infinite tenderness:
it sounded something like the notes of a thrush. What could it be? And
the bird went on singing and flying--on and on, further and further!
Deep snow was lying where the path takes a sharp turn. At the very
first step Joseph sunk up to his knees. He was, however, quick enough
to clamber up an overhanging bank, and then to get down again into the
path beyond the snowdrift. It was lucky that this steep declivity was
planted with mountain ash, to show the way.

"Do the mountain ash berries belong to my father, too, I wonder?" said
Joseph aloud. The trees could not answer him, and there was no human
being near to give him any information. A fox appeared on the path in
the thicket, and stared at the boy. No doubt he was puzzled to make out
what such a singular apparition could be: he stood for some moments
immoveable, watching the boy, till the latter cried out, "Get along!"
And off trotted the fox, but in no hurry, and little Joseph again
exclaimed, "Yes, grandfather, it is just as you said, for now I saw it
myself,--the fox drags his tail after him on the ground, to brush away
the marks of his paws, that no one may know which way he is gone. How
clever of him!" Magpies chattered from the tops of the trees, and a
crossbill was perched on a projecting bit of rock, just above the
valley; and the boy nodded to it, and the bird nodded too: he did not
say a word, but he only opened and shut his beak, as if he wished to
say, "I am hungry." "There's something for you!" cried little Joseph,
flinging down the ravine the only bit of bread he had left. The bird,
no doubt, supposed that it was a stone thrown at him, for he flew away
timidly, and the piece of bread was buried in the snow, so no one got a
share of it.

Joseph went on quietly, resting sometimes under a tree, and sometimes
under a projecting rock, amusing himself by watching how the snow fell
in such thick showers, and yet so softly, covering everything more and
more. "My father must take me a drive in a sledge tomorrow," thought
Joseph; and, thinking of his father, he wandered further and further.

Twilight was beginning to fall, and the boy felt rather frightened, but
he still went straight on; and it was lucky for him that Schilder-David
had guarded him from all the prevalent superstitions of the country.
Still Haespele had told him that the souls of the dead danced in
churchyards at night, in the shape of lights, and often in the wood
besides; and the rider on the gallant grey, who rides through the air,
can crack his whip famously, for he has a fir tree as tall as the
church steeple for a whip. There is the stone cross at the side of the
road, where once a peasant with his cart and horse fell down the hill;
and there sits a raven on the cross. "You are nothing but a raven,"
said Joseph, throwing a snowball at the bird, who flew away with a
croak.

Joseph went on till he came to a group of wooden figures, the faces
almost covered with snow, and the figures, in summer attire, peeping
out of the hollow in which the group was placed. Joseph broke off a fir
branch, and rubbed off all the snow from the wooden faces, that seemed
to stare at him so strangely. They consisted of five men, in the
hollow, under green trees: they all wore white shirts, green breeches,
and short yellow leather gaiters. They stood in a row, each with an axe
in his hand. In front, however, of the others stood one man alone, with
uplifted axe, and beside him lay a man on the ground, bleeding and
crushed, close to a felled tree. Joseph read the inscription: it was,
"Vincent Roettmann was crushed by this tree on the 17th of August, and
died, after great suffering, on the 23rd of August. May God grant him
everlasting rest, and punish the guilty!"

Joseph shuddered. The figures kept staring at him as if he were guilty.
And what Roettmann could this be?

As a sign that he was innocent, Joseph placed the green fir branch on
the group, and went on his way, not quite easy in his mind, because the
figures stared after him so oddly.

What does he see coming, along the path? Is it a man?--he has at least
a hundred protuberances! He must be a spectre! He comes nearer and
nearer. Joseph goes up to him boldly, and says--"Good evening!" The man
with the hundred protuberances--it was the hatter with his bundles of
three-cornered hats hanging round him--tried to persuade Joseph, first
kindly and then by force, to go back with him; but he slipped through
his hands, and running on, cried loudly through the wood, "Father!
father!" and on he went. "He will soon come--he is sure to hear me."
Night now set in, and Joseph walked further and further, calling out
his father's name; and his cheeks were in such a glow that the snow
melted as it fell on his face. He knelt down and said his usual night
prayer at least thirty times over--"God, bless my father and mother!"
He always said this with peculiar piety; and again started up, thinking
that he heard something crackling and moving in the ravine. But no--all
was again still. "But where is the path?--there is now no path at all."
The boy began to cry bitterly as he ran along, stumbling first against
one tree and then against another. "Father! mother! father!--good Lord,
help me!" And God heard his cry. Three angels are coming hither with
lights: they have white garments and gold crowns on their heads, and
are singing such a strange song.

           "Awake ye, awake ye,
              Come hither to me;
            For this is the home
              Of the brave and the free."

They come nearer and nearer, and now they are close to Joseph, who
accosts them courageously, saying--"Good angels! take me with you to my
own home, and to my father and mother."

"Gracious powers!--a spirit!--the Holy Child!" cry out the three
angels, and scurry off with their torches at such a pace! but they have
wings, and can run or fly as quickly as they choose.

Joseph did not try to follow them: he stumbled and fell, but soon got
up again, when all had vanished, and he was once more alone. A little
way off he saw the glimmering of a torch. How to get near it! Joseph
had lost his cap, but he did not observe it; and, running as hard as
ever he could, he shouted, "Stay, stay! I am little Joseph!" But the
angels declined stopping, and were no longer to be seen. Their
footsteps, however, were distinct enough in the snow, and Joseph
followed the marks on, and on; and at last up a hill--Heaven be
praised!--a light at last, indeed many lights, and brightness all
round. The comforting feeling, that men are under shelter of a roof
close by, inspired fresh courage in the little wanderer; and, with
renewed strength, he ran down the hill to the lights, and reached the
Forest Mill below at the very moment when the three angels were
ascending the outside stair singing:

     "Three Kaisers sang on high--the Heavenly Hosts among;
      And glorious the melody, and glorious the song.
            Awake ye, awake ye,
              Come hither to me;
            For this is the home
              Of the brave and the free."

Joseph slipped quietly in behind the singers, scarcely daring to
breathe, far less to call out--above all not to call out, or the angels
would be sure to fly away again. He went with them into the room, and
the three angels sung the song of the "Three Holy Kings" to the end.
They were quietly listened to, and got plenty to eat and drink, and
presents into the bargain; and the angels ate, and drank, and spoke
their thanks very properly. Joseph soon found out that these were not
angels at all, but three boys dressed up as the Three Holy Kings. They
went away, and Joseph remained alone; and now, for the first time, he
was remarked by those present.

"Who are you?--where do you come from?--what are you doing here?" These
were the questions that quickly assailed him from the Roettmaennin, and
the miller's wife, and Tony.

"Eat something first to warm yourself; you are quite wet, and have no
cap," said Tony, kindly. "There, my boy, eat and drink, and we will
talk to you afterwards. Come, I will take off your jacket and hang it
near the stove. Don't sit so close to the stove--it is not good for
you."

"A handsome boy," said the miller's wife, while Joseph was drinking
some mulled wine.

"The angels guided me famously. This is what they drink in Heaven, I
suppose," said Joseph.

There was a strange flash in the eyes of the Roettmaennin when she heard
these words and that voice. She pushed aside the large jug, and stared
at the boy very much as the fox had done in the wood.

"Where are you from?" asked the bride.

"From Waldhausen."

"Who is your father?"

"He does not live with us."

"What's your mother's name?"


"Martina, and my grandfather is Schilder-David."

"So, I have got you at last!" cried the fierce old Roettmannin. "Good
Lord! this is Adam's son." So saying, she started up and grasped the
child with eagle's talons.

"Yes, my father's name is Adam. Do you know him?"


"Come along with me; I will take you to my room and put you to bed,"
said the Roettmannin.

"No, I won't go with you," said Joseph. "You will stew me in a kettle,
like the witches. Let me go, or I'll bite."

"Oh! I'll show you what stewing and boiling mean," cried the old woman
with a fierce laugh. "It is a blessing from Heaven direct, that the
child should have come here of his own accord. We will keep him hid,
and not give him up. Now we can force both Adam and the others to dance
to our piping."

"But I won't give you up the child," said the bride, coming forward.
"Don't be afraid, my boy--don't be afraid; come and sit in my lap. But
wait; I will first take off your shoes, and you shall put on mine, and
you will soon be quite warm. Now tell me, does your mother know that
you left home? and why did you come so far alone in such a night?"


"I went to meet my father, for they all abuse him in the village; and
they say my grandmother is the very devil, and I wanted to tell him all
this."

"I will be-devil you," cried the savage old Roettmaennin, furiously
struggling with the bride to get the child from her, who, however, used
all her strength to defend the boy; and at the moment when the women
were contending with each other, the two grandfathers came in.

"Oh! here is my grandfather," said little Joseph in ecstacy, running up
to him.

"Is that the lost grandchild?" asked Speidel-Roettmann. "Come here, my
boy. You have got another grandfather now. What a fine fellow he is! It
would have been a pity----"

"And I say, no! and no again! and a thousand times over, no, no, no!"
raged the Roettmaennin; "and I would rather let my tongue be cut out and
thrown to the dogs, than ever say yes, as long as I live."

"Quite right! Say no, if you like; but it's no use now. Is it not an
actual miracle from Heaven, that a child should be lost in such a way
and found again? In the wood yonder, all the people in the village are
running about in search of the child. We may well be proud of such a
grandson, and it is quite a privilege and an honour to have a child
belonging to us, who is such a favourite that the neighbours are
risking their lives for his sake. The good Lord has performed a
miracle, and I hope He will perform one on you also, wife. Be kind, and
give in. It is no sin to yield up your own will. Do you consent to it,
Tony?"

"So far as I am concerned, I would on no account deprive the child of
his father."

"But I say no, no! and with my last breath I will say no! and we shall
see whether you can get the better of this _no_ of mine."

During this discussion Schilder-David had remained perfectly silent: he
was holding Joseph in his arms, passing his hand over his face and his
limbs, as if to make sure that he really had him safe again. And now he
slipped out at the door along with the boy: he could not exactly tell
why: he wanted to be once more alone with Joseph at home; but when he
got outside the house he, for the first time, perceived that his knees
failed him--he was forced to sit down on the steps. Within the house he
heard a commotion, a window was opened and a pungent smell of smoke was
perceptible, for the lights on the Christmas tree were all blown out.

So sat Schilder-David. Who comes this way? Who can it be? It is
Haespele. He shouted with joy on seeing Joseph, who was, however,
shivering so much that Schilder-David was quite uneasy about him.

"Go back quickly into the wood and say that he is here, and prevent
them all running about in search of him," said David, his teeth
chattering.

Haespele hurried away, shouting out the good news. "He is found! he is
found!" cried he up the hill till he was hoarse.

A female figure now came out to David and said--

"Give me the child."

"No; I'll give him to no one here. What do you want with him?"

"I wish to carry him to my room, and to put him to bed. Come with us."

"Oh! you must be Tony, surely? Your mother was a good woman."

"And I hope I am, too. Come, quick; make haste!"


"I can't go up the steps; I find out now what I have gone through."

"Come into the stable, then; for you will be warmer there, at all
events."

Tony took the old man straight into the stable, where she prepared a
comfortable bed of dry hay, and laid the child on it, and covered him
up warmly.

Schilder-David placed his hand on the child's forehead, who soon fell
sound asleep; and his grandfather watched by him, scarcely daring to
breathe. Not till they were both quietly sleeping did Tony glide softly
out of the stable.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
               ASLEEP AND AWAKE AGAIN IN THE FOREST MILL.


Haespele had been sent by the anxious parents to the eminence where they
had observed a light, to see what was going on there. Martina would not
believe what Adam said:--"Who knows but they may have found our Joseph
in the mill?" and yet she wanted to go there instantly herself; but
Adam persuaded her to wait, at all events till Haespele came back.

At last he came; he ran as fast as he could to the spot where he had
left them, but they were no longer there. "Is the whole world entirely
bewitched this blessed night?" said Haespele. Adam and Martina however,
at that moment, were engaged in laying hold of the three angels. Adam
shouted to them in his powerful voice to stop, as they came near: the
angels, however, seemed to feel such desperate alarm at any of the
Roettmann family, that they fairly took to their heels.

"You will see that our Joseph is gone with the Christmas singers," said
Martina, in a hopeful tone.

Adam pursued the angels, and was lucky enough to catch hold of one by
the wing, but it came off in his hand; he followed them; and the flying
angels were not quick enough to escape a man like Adam. He clutched one
of the angels tight, and asked him about Joseph; then he brought him to
Martina, who was waiting above; but the boy was in such mortal terror,
that they could not get a word out of him; above all he refused to say
who his companions were, and when he was asked if he had not met a fine
tall boy, seven years old, in the wood, the angel first said yes, and
then no; it was impossible to make sense of what he said. In the midst
of this judicial examination, Haespele appeared: "He is there! he is
there!"

"Who is there?"

"Joseph," said Haespele, quite hoarse.

"Where? where? where?" cried Martina, rushing up to him. "Where is he?
for God's sake tell me! dead or living?"

"He is sitting in the mill below, drinking mulled wine."

"My child! my child!" cried Martina, in so shrill a tone that it
vibrated through the valley, and running down the hill, as fast ever
she could; Adam could scarcely keep up with her; she rushed up the
steps and dashed open the door, crying out, "Joseph! Joseph! where is
my Joseph?"

"You and your Joseph may go the devil," answered a voice: well did she
know it; it was the voice of the Roettmaennin. Neither fear, nor anxiety,
nor peril of death, nor intense happiness could have overcome Martina,
but this voice had such an overwhelming effect on her, that, with a
loud scream, she sank to the ground in a swoon; even Adam, who was
standing close behind her, was so terrified, that he let her fall,
without trying to support her. "Mother! mother!" said he: he could not
utter another syllable.

"Do not call her mother," said Tony; "go away, Adam; leave us; I will
raise Martina myself: but first give me that warm mulled wine, and
sprinkle some drops of snow water from your cloak on her face. So, so!
she breathes!"


"Capital!" said the old Roettmannin, with a harsh laugh, "if the whole
world go crazy, I won't. If they all fall down dead around me, like so
many cockchafers, I will still say _no_!"


Speidel-Roettmann, however, instead of replying to his wife, went up to
Martina, saying, "Come, Martina, try to be composed and to command your
feelings--there, I have lifted you up, sit down here."

"My Joseph! where is my Joseph?"

"In the warm stable below, sound asleep," said Tony; "let him sleep on
quietly, your father is with him; we laid him in warm, dry hay; and
I'll tell you what we will do--we will carry him upstairs immediately,
and lay him in my bed, in the next room. You can go down to fetch him:
Adam, you need not be afraid about your Martina; go at once, and I will
stay with her."

"And I!" said Speidel-Roettmann. Adam went down to the stable, and
carried the child upstairs to bed, but Schilder-David was sleeping so
soundly that he did not choose to wake him. The child, too, continued
fast asleep, even when he took him in his arms. The father stroked the
child's head fondly, and then his hand once more hung down by his side.
Martina was now brought gently into the room; she bent over Joseph
quietly, and listened to his breathing.

"Lie down beside the child, on my bed," said the Forest Miller's Tony
to Martina, who looked at the girl in surprise, while Tony added, "You
may be very glad that matters have taken this turn. Your Adam and I
were forced into a betrothal; he disliked it quite as much as I did,
and your Adam is good and true; he never spoke one word to me except
about you; and though we were bride and bridegroom, yet we never kissed
each other once."

"Then I will give you a kiss," said Martina, starting up and embracing
Tony.

"I wish I had my cheeks between the two," said Haespele to Adam; and
then addressing the two women, "You are both very nice girls, I must
say! Come, Tony, your best plan is to take me: will you have me? I see
you won't, but I'll give you a wedding present whoever you marry, all
the same."

"Where is my father?" interrupted Martina.

"Still sleeping in the hay."

"Good Heavens! when he awakes, and no longer finds the child by his
side, he will go out of his senses."

"Don't be uneasy, I will go to the stable and stay there with him till
he awakes," answered Tony; but Haespele detained her by asking for
something to drink, before he set out as quick as he could for the
Reitersberg, where the men were still keeping watch. Tony quickly
poured him out a glass of hot wine. The betrothal wine had been tasted
by strange guests to-day.

All was again quiet in the mill. Joseph was asleep, and Adam and
Martina watching by his bedside; Schilder-David was asleep stretched on
the hay, and Tony seated near him; and in the room above the Forest
Miller was asleep. The Roettmaennin tried to wake him, for she wanted the
help of a man, but the Forest Miller made no sound, and the Roettmaennin
cursed the "flour sack" lying there motionless, while the whole house
was in an uproar. Just as the Roettmaennin returned into the room, she
cried out "What's the matter? is the world come to an end to day?" for
the hills echoed with the report of guns, and every valley and rock
resounded with joyful cries, so that little Joseph himself was awakened
by the noise, and starting up in bed, called out "Father!"

"I am here," answered Adam.

The shots were repeated, and now the whole party drew near, amid the
sound of horns, the ringing of bells, the cracking of whips, and the
barking of dogs.

"You called on the devil to come--do you hear? he is coming. Give your
consent, while it is yet time," said Speidel-Roettmann, in the hope of
softening his wife's heart.

"If the devil comes, I shall be very happy to see him; I should rather
like to have a talk with him," answered the Roettmaennin; "you are all
fools. If you choose to truckle to others, do so; but a woman of spirit
never gives in--nor will I--never--I would rather die!"

The hobgoblin troop came nearer and nearer, and at last drew up at the
mill. They did not come in, however, for in the stable was heard a
woman's cry for help, and the wild groans and lamentations of a man's
voice. Schilder-David had woke up, and could not find the child, and
now he was rummaging among the hay seeking for him, and loudly
lamenting; refusing to listen to Tony; indeed, threatening to strangle
her on the spot if she did not instantly restore the child.

Edward hurried into the stable, and Tony ran up to him, calling out
"Help, help!" Schilder-David looked somewhat formidable by the light of
the lantern, when he turned round, after plunging into the hay, which
had adhered in quantities to his hair, covering his face and clothes.

"David, 'he is all right and safe," said the young farmer Edward, in
his pleasing voice. Schilder-David sank back into the hay.

"Who is that stranger?" said Tony to Haespele.

"The brother of our Pastorin."

"Sir--sir," began Tony, "do tell David that his grandson is in my room,
and Adam and Martina beside him. Pray say this to him, for he won't
attend to me, he won't listen to a word I tell him. For God's sake help
me; you are the brother of our Pastorin, and no doubt you are a good
man, and I thought so when I saw you once before to day. Help the old
man to rise."

Schilder-David, who was now sitting in the hay, stretched out his hand
to Tony, saying; "You are right, forgive me, and help me up." Tony and
Edward each gave him a hand, and when Schilder-David was once more on
his feet, he said, "You are two excellent people." Edward supported
David on his left arm, and offered his right hand to Tony, he scarcely
knew why,--and she gave him her hand, she scarcely knew why,--but they
clasped each other's hands close. "I think I can now quite well walk
alone," said Schilder-David, and the other two freed him from all the
hay clinging to his clothes, and went with him upstairs.

Martina gave up Joseph to his grandfather, but the meeting with her
father was cut short by their all going to the next room together,
where Haespele was heard laughing merrily. He proposed to play the part
of an evil spirit, and in that way to convert the Roettmaennin. He
thought this would be the best way to manage her.

When Joseph came into the room holding his grandfather's hand, Tony
said, "You had better not be here just now," and she took him back into
the room, on the other side of the entrance.

"This is the brother of our Pastorin," said she to the Roettmaennin, as
she was leaving the room, presenting Edward to her.

The latter now spoke in a very urgent manner to the Roettmaennin, who
gave him no answer, but fixed her bright staring eyes on him.

"It is time to go to church now," said Roettmann, and the whole of those
present left the room. As they all assembled in front of the house, a
voice was heard in the room above shouting, "Long live the Roettmaennin,
she has given her consent."

It was Haespele's voice, who ran triumphantly down stairs, all shouting
"_Vivat_!" again and again; and the horn sounded merrily, and the bells
rung, and the dogs barked. A voice screamed something vociferously from
the window, but not a word was heard.

Amid singing and sounds of horns, they all went through the wood to the
village. Tony walked beside Martina. On the top of the hill, she said,
"I must now go back; I should like to go to church with you, and to
stay with you; but, though I don't know why, I feel a kind of nervous
uneasiness, because my father never woke up during all the commotion in
the house. I have not been so dutiful as I ought, in not having gone to
see about him. Good night, Joseph," said she, shaking hands with him
kindly. "Good night to all." She passed Edward, without giving him her
hand before all the people, though they both would fain have shook
hands again. "Good night," said Edward in a whisper; and she answered,
in a low tone, "Good night." Haespele shouted a loud "_Vivat_!" in her
honour, as she left them to go to the mill, and all present joined in
it.

Adam was carrying Joseph in his arms, who was dressed in his new
clothes and his new boots; but at last the father was obliged to let
him walk along beside David, who insisted on having him. On the hill,
above the village, Haespele called out, with the last effort of his
hoarse voice, "Stop! Stop!"

Here still lay the wolf, in the field into which Adam had flung him.
Adam took the child close to the dead animal, and said, "Look; I killed
this wolf with my cudgel." No scolding, however, nor persuasions would
induce Joseph to touch the wolf; he was so frightened. "It's lucky for
you that you are now to be under the rule of a father," said Adam, "or
you would not have proved a true Roettmann." He led his son by the
righthand and dragged the wolf after him with his left; and thus they
all went along together, till they arrived at Schilder-David's house.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                    A GREAT EVENT IN A SMALL HOUSE.


"Yes! I quite forgot to tell you that the Forest Miller"--had Leegart
said, when she was interrupted by loud cries from the house--

"He is found; Joseph is close by."

The women ran out, and asked, "Is any one hurt?"

"Not one--all safe," was the answer.

Leegart remained immoveable in her chair, only placing her feet more
firmly on her footstool, which seemed seized with a sudden trembling.
She took a secret pinch of snuff, to tranquillize her nerves, and
looked at the jacket with a glance signifying, "I have done with you at
last."

"Joseph is here," called out Haespele, who had ran forward before the
rest; "and my jacket is finished," answered Leegart, in the firm
conviction that by her incessant sewing she had preserved Joseph's
life; but as Haespele, in his ignorance, made no remark on this point,
she asked "Where was he found?"

"In the Forest Mill."

"In fact, I need not have asked," rejoined Leegart, glancing round,
with a self satisfied air, "I knew where he was; I pointed out exactly
the way he was sure to take. At the very minute when the cry of his
being found was first heard I was in the act of uttering the words:
'The Forest Miller'--all these women know that this is true."

The most important point for Leegart, was to prove that she was clever
enough to know precisely what was going on, even when she was not there
herself. When they all came into the room, Martina pressed Leegart's
hand warmly--thereby causing her to scatter on the floor a private
pinch of snuff. Leegart said again, "I knew it; I said it. I told them
he was in the Forest Mill: at the very moment that Haespele arrived, I
said the words, 'Forest Miller;' and I prophesy now for you, Martina,
that you will get your Adam at last."

"It is so! it is so! here he is!" exclaimed Martina.

Leegart cast down her eyes modestly; she wished to vindicate her
prophetic gifts, and to shew that she knew it all beforehand. She
nodded emphatically to all who came into the room, as if to say: "I
knew that you would all come here--I knew it long before--I foresaw it
all, and particularly that Adam would come in, holding Joseph by the
hand. I knew all about the wolf too. I only met an adder in the forest,
but the one animal is quite as dangerous as the other. All that has
occurred could not fail to come to pass." Leegart was surprised at
nothing. The expression of her face said, "Nothing is hidden from me;"
and she took a stolen pinch with entire complacency.

"I have three fathers now," exclaimed Joseph; "Leegart, here are my
three fathers."

"Good," said David, "but go to bed now. Martina, take him away. God be
praised, we are all come safe back," shouted he into his wife's ear.
The grandmother nodded, with a pleased face. "Has it been snowing hay?"
asked she, taking some stalks of hay out of her husband's hair. All
laughed, and the deaf grandmother laughed too, and looked earnestly at
each person, guessing, from the motion of their lips, what she could
not hear. She stretched out her hand to Speidel-Roettmann, saying, "Pray
sit down, pray sit down."

Adam went up and shook hands with her of his own accord, bawling into
her ear in his stentorian voice, "God bless you! mother-in-law."

The old woman stepped back suddenly, as if she had received a blow. "I
hear you well enough, I am not so deaf as all that," said she,
retreating to the bench beside the stove, and looking nervously at the
great men and the great dogs.

Schilder-David's house was not made for the Roettmanns. The father and
son almost touched the ceiling when they stood upright.

Little Joseph remained for a time sitting on the knee of
Speidel-Roettmann. David was jealous, and felt almost angry with the
child for taking so quickly to other people.

"Give me your large wolf-dog," said Joseph to grandfather Roettmann, who
said--

"He is yours."

"You are mine; my own;" said Joseph to the dog, but he was obliged to
leave him with his grandfather for the present, as the animal would not
go with him.

"Some one take Joseph to bed instantly," repeated David, in a voice of
authority. His wife understood, by the movement of his lips, what her
husband was saying, so she took Joseph by the hand, and went with him
up to the attic. Scarcely had the door closed behind the grandmother
and grandson, when Leegart stepped forwards with a degree of confidence
and self-assurance that amazed every one, saying deliberately,

"And now, Martina, go and put on your wedding dress. I will assist you,
for you know I always promised that I would. All you men, if you are
true men, take care that Adam and Martina are married this very night.
You can, if you will, and if you insist upon it. The Roettmanns have a
famous opportunity of showing their courage. Speidel can now split
asunder a hard log, and you, Adam, 'The Horse,' may drag it home. What
are you all staring at me for? I say, go straight to our Pastor, and I
tell you the thing will be done. I tell you so, and I always know
pretty well what I say. Come, Martina, that I may dress you. You shall
not hide your face any longer; you have groaned and grieved, and felt
shame long enough. Come along."

She took Martina with her to her room, while every one walked after her
in surprise, but no one spoke a word. Martina soon returned into the
room, prettily dressed. Adam went up to her, and, unseen by the
others, showed her something wrapped up and fastened by a riband
into his purse. He then turned to the others, saying, "Father, and
father-in-law, it is far the best plan. Come with us to our Pastor. He
must make us one this very day."

"He will never do it."

"Let us at least try."

"Don't let us forget the chief point of all," said Schilder-David,
suddenly stopping, "When any one goes to be married they must know
their Catechism, and particularly the Ten Commandments. Can you repeat
them to me, Adam? You say nothing. Here is Joseph's Catechism for you,
go into the next room and look it over quickly."

"I will help you," said Martina, going with Adam into the next room.

This, however, was far from being an easy piece of work. Adam plodded,
and became as hot as fire, but he could not manage to get the Ten
Commandments into his head, especially the order in which they followed
each other; in his agitation of heart, he evidently had no chance of
impressing these Eternal Laws on his memory.

"Does our Joseph know the Ten Commandments by heart?" said Adam to
Martina.

"Yes, indeed, word for word."

Leegart rescued the despairing Adam by coming into the room, and
saying, "Don't delay at present. You are not like other people. The
Pastor will probably ask you no questions on the subject, and, if he
does, you can promise to learn the Commandments afterwards."

"A capital idea," said Adam, in a tone of relief; and closing the book
at once, he felt as if a heavier load was taken off his shoulders, than
on that memorable day when he had carried the cart and the sacks.

He returned with Martina into the sitting-room. The two fathers, and
the bride and bridegroom, wished to leave the house together. Adam
tried to make his mother-in-law aware of what was going on, but she
shrunk from him, putting both hands to her ears; but when David spoke
to her, she nodded. "Shall I stay at home," asked she, "and take care
of Joseph? I will do it if you choose; but you have all done so much,
while I have been sitting at home; and I must say I should like to be
present at my Martina's wedding."

"Leegart will be so kind as to stay with Joseph."

"No! I will not be so kind. I have vowed to be present at Martina's
marriage, and I could not possibly stay away even if I wished it."

Luckily Haespele, the refuge of the destitute, arrived at this moment,
and though he had dressed himself very smartly, and was very proud of
his personal appearance, and especially overjoyed that the wedding was
to take place that very day, naturally expecting to have a conspicuous
place at it, still he was at last persuaded to stay with Joseph by
Martina saying to him:--"Haespele, all your life long you have been most
kind both to the child and to me; be so good as to stay with the child
today."

"Yes, yes, I'll do so of course, not another word," said Haespele, and,
gulping down his disappointment as he best could, he went up to the
attic and sat down by Joseph's bedside.

The two fathers, the mother, and the bridal pair went to the Parsonage,
and a few paces behind followed Leegart alone, looking round at the
houses on every side, where she saw a light, as she went along, and
thinking how little they knew what an unexpected event was about to
take place that night. Leegart heard the sounds of music--it must be
bridal music sounding in the air. To be sure she is the only one who
hears the melody, but she both knows and hears more than most people.

When the wedding party entered the sitting-room of the Parsonage,
Leegart stayed below with the maid in the kitchen; she soon, however,
dispatched her upstairs, that she might throw open the little window of
the kitchen for air, she was in such a state of excitement.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                       FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILD.


Night had followed morning, and morning turned into night, on this day
like the previous one. The worthy Pastor required to exercise all his
quiet self command, not to give way to the most feverish feelings of
distress and anxiety; but just in the same way that he had resisted
allowing the alarm bell to be rung except in the greatest extremity, so
he now restrained his own feelings. He stood long looking out of the
window. In the dead of night the ticking of the pendulum of the church
clock was distinctly heard, and the heart of the anxious Pastor
vibrated in unison with the swinging pendulum. He had learned the
difficult art, in the midst of all the heartfelt sorrow and uneasiness
he so keenly felt, to maintain the most perfect outward composure, and
to subdue every symptom of passion: even the noblest of all--that of
sympathy for others.

While all those who had remained behind in the village forced
themselves to go to work, or sought to divert their thoughts by
conversing with each other, and keeping themselves awake by sharing
their uneasiness, the Pastor sat alone in his room, looking out of the
window, apparently without emotion or noticing any object--and yet his
inward agitation and excitement were great. The villagers, well
acquainted with this habit of his, declared that at such moments the
Pastor preached a silent sermon to himself; the Pastorin, however, had
confided to her father, and to no one else in the world, that on these
occasions the Pastor was composing poems, so tender and so aerial that
solid words were too substantial for them, and he was content to
breathe out his words and thoughts, though he neither wished nor tried
to preserve them, by writing down his conceptions. Thus, when the poor
child was found frozen to death, in the neighbouring village of Wenger,
he had repeated, almost unconsciously, aloud, the words that are now
inscribed on his tomb, and they had no little difficulty in persuading
him to allow them to be written down, and sent to his brother clergyman
at Wenger. Often, however, it was a poem, a deep thought from the
kindred soul of another, or a melody of his favourite master, Mozart,
that the Pastor repeated to himself at such hours, with all sorts of
imaginary variations; and when he had held this silent intercourse with
himself--the Pastorin called this his supernatural existence--he then
went forth into the world, with a kind and consoling word for every one
who needed it, and a degree of holiness an faith, strength and power,
visible to all men. Thus he sat on this evening absorbed in a reverie.

The strokes of the clock were heard striking slowly from the church
tower, proclaiming on hour after another; they go on striking, by day
and by night, in joy or in sorrow--they sound on, and on, and loudly
say: "Another space of time gone for ever--lost in Eternity!"

"We have found him," was the cry he suddenly heard in the streets, as
the sound of a horn rung through the silent night, and the Pastor went
out to welcome back his brother-in-law.

When they were again in the sitting-room, Edward told how Joseph had
been found in the Forest Mill, with Adam's betrothed bride, Tony, He
did not stop to describe minutely the fierce rage of the ungovernable
Roettmaennin, he spoke with enthusiasm of the kind honest sympathy shown
by all the villagers:--

"These men," said he, "possess nothing but their lives, and their sound
limbs, to enable them to struggle on through life, and yet with the
utmost decision and confidence, as if it could not be otherwise, they,
every one, exposed themselves to danger in order to save a lost child;
this proved to me, dear brother, that your heart lived in all these
men--you were at home, and yet they all came with us. I cannot but
think that it must be a severe trial to you to leave such people."

The Pastor answered nothing; neither in assent or dissent, and the
Pastorin asked:--

"So the Forest Miller's Tony has given up Adam? Heaven be praised for
that! She has a pure and true heart, and is sure to do well in the
world. Why did you not bring her with you to the village? I wish you
had brought her here to me, Edward. She stands in great need of some
one to interpose between her and her stepmother, and also the fierce
old Roettmaennin."

Edward did not say a syllable, but he breathed hard; in the mean time
the Paster rejoined:--

"Don't be uneasy about Tony, she is wood of a fine and solid grain, and
we cannot avert from others the consequences of their own actions,
either for good or evil. They who have courage enough to do a deed,
have also courage enough to endure its consequences, and ought to have
it."

Edward looked up more cheerfully, but his cheeks glowed, and his
sister, on seeing this, said:--"You are quite feverish--do go and lie
down, and I will bring you a cup of tea when you are in bed."

Edward was very reluctant to follow this advice, and yet he felt quite
dizzy; he had gone through more than he cared at this moment to
confess. There was a knock at the door:--

"Come in," cried the Pastorin, but as there was an evident hesitation
in doing so, she opened the door herself, and in came Speidel-Roettmann,
Schilder-David and his wife, and, behind them, Adam and Martina.

"Herr Pastor," said Schilder-David, stepping forward, "God has helped
us wonderfully; we hope you will give us further aid, and speedily too,
that all things may be done in order."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Speak yourself;" and David drew back, jogging Speidel-Roettmann's arm.

"What I want," began the latter, repeatedly stroking his closely
cropped head with his hand, as if wishing to give a token of respect by
pulling off an imaginary hat--"What I want, and I have not a word to
say against it, is that the Herr Pastor should marry Adam to Martina
this afternoon."

"Oh! that is delightful!" exclaimed the Pastorin, while Adam came
forward, holding Martina's hand, and said--

"Yes, Herr Pastor, we earnestly beg you will."

"Yes, we humbly beg it," repeated Martina, in a low voice.

"Gently, gently," said the Pastor, in an authoritative tone, "you two
young people, follow me to my room."

He went first, and the two followed him.

"Sit down," said the Pastor, when they were in his study--then he
continued: "Adam, probably because you are the richest man in all the
country, and can help yourself out of a full purse, without even
thinking. What will it cost? you may imagine that whatever you choose
can be done at once; you are proud of your strength, because you can
knock down a horse, or kill a wolf with your stick: do you suppose that
you are, therefore, entitled to imagine that where you are concerned,
there are no laws or sacred injunctions, that cannot be abrogated when
you wish it?"--

The Pastor paused, and Adam began--

"Herr Pastor! no one in the world knows me as I really am--neither my
father, nor my mother--no one but my Martina. You, Herr Pastor, do know
something of me; but not everything. What you have just said is very
true; I have been a wild fellow; always ready to hit every man--a word
and a blow; and I fear it is true, that I had not, hitherto, entirely
subdued this wild fellow within me; but, Herr Pastor, he is now down
for ever, and you and my Martina ... only give me some penance to
perform; I will submit cheerfully, for I deserve it. Desire me to hack
off my fingers, that I may become as weak as a child, and I will not
shrink from it."

Adam's emotion was so great that he could not say another word, and the
Pastor resumed--

"The law is, that you must be proclaimed three Sundays following."

"Is it not enough that the perils of my child made my blood run cold in
my veins? Tell me what to do, Herr Pastor, and I will do it."

"Oh! Herr Pastor," entreated Martina; "have we not been punished
severely enough? Have we not repented long enough?"

"No! you conducted yourself very properly during your long trial, but
your sin was no light one. It shall never be said that those who once
set the law at defiance, shall do the same now."

"If we cannot help ourselves, we must submit, I suppose," said Adam.
Martina could not speak for tears. The Pastor let her remain for a time
quiet, and then said:--

"Come with me to the next room."

"Is it all arranged?" asked the Pastorin.

Adam and Martina shook their heads, and Speidel-Roettmann came forward
and said, "Herr Pastor, is it on account of the banns?"

"Yes, yes," answered Adam.

"If that is all," said Speidel-Roettmann with an air of importance,
"Herr Pastor, I am willing to pay the fine it will cost."

"Truly, if rich farmers could smooth all obstacles with their money,
there would be little difficulty for them in this world; but, Master
Roettmann, there are some things which even your ten horses could not
move from the spot. Has your wife given her consent?"

"Haespele declares she has," interrupted Edward. "He will be here
presently."

Adam hurried away and brought Haespele back with him; he came in a great
fright, and when the Pastor appealed to his conscience to say whether
the Roettmaennin had really given her consent, he said at length, after
biting his lips till the blood came, "No, she did not."

"Very well then," said the Pastor; "I will on my own responsibility
undertake to marry you, even without the Roettmaennin's consent; but now
I have something to say to you. Neither your pride, Adam, nor your
humility--and I believe in your sincerity, and hope I shall have reason
to do so henceforth--nor your swaggering, Speidel-Roettmann, as to
paying the fine, but----"

"For the sake of little Joseph," the Pastorin could not help saying:
"you give in on account of the boy. He is a precocious child. What
would he think, if he heard that the banns of his parents were only
published now? What battles he would have with his companions, and who
knows what poisonous drops might fall into his heart, and what evil
might be produced by them hereafter?"

"Exactly so," said the Pastor; "the child is now asleep, and utterly
unconscious of all the perplexities and disorders of this wicked world;
he has been in danger of death, and miraculously saved in search of his
father, who proved himself a weak person, in spite of his strength; and
his grandfather, who hitherto believed that everything could be
purchased with money. So for little Joseph's sake I will marry you this
night."

Martina rushed up to the Pastor, and knelt down and kissed his hand;
Adam would evidently have gladly done the same, but in spite of his
humility he could not quite bring himself to kneel yet; he only laid
his hand on Martina's head, as if to testify that she was kneeling for
him also.

All was still in the room, and the Pastor ended by saying, "We shall
see each other again in church," and then went into his study. The
Parsonage soon resumed its usual quiet aspect, but even before the
wedding party left it, the news ran like wildfire from house to house
in the village. "Adam and Martina are to be married to-night. Leegart
said they would beforehand."




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                          A VOICE AT MIDNIGHT.


The bells were ringing out into the cold night air; a bright ray of
light from the open church door streamed out on the graves, which were
covered with snow. The whole community were assembled in the church,
and each had a light beside them; the organ was pealing forth, and the
congregation uplifted their voices in a hymn.

The sounds of the organ died away, the voices were silent, and the
Pastor stood up in the pulpit and commenced thus:--"St. Matthew, 25th
chapter, 40th verse. 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least
of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' These are words from a
distant land, but they are verified this day, here in our woods; in
this forest, where at that time no human foot followed the track of
wild animals, either here or elsewhere." He then went on to describe
that men cannot serve themselves better than by doing good to others;
"and never," continued he, "never is the human face more bright than at
the moment of doing a good action; a sacred halo overspreads such a
man, and makes him soar above the sorrows of life." He then began to
explain the signification of having service in the church at midnight.
"You are all voluntarily assembled here, and have broken in on your
sleep; break in also on the sleep of your souls, and close not your
eyes. How often have anxiety and sorrow kept you awake in the night,
and you tossed about, no longer able to return to repose, and it was
well for you if it was only anxiety, or care creeping intangibly in the
darkness about your bed! Sad indeed would it have been for you, had it
been the remembrance of an evil deed that made you wakeful! In one
house a child keeps its mother waking; the father is far away, and she
stands beside his sick bed, and says, 'Would to God it were morning!'
and asks, 'Is it not yet morning?'"

As the Pastor spake these words, Martina clung close to Adam, who was
seated beside her on the foremost bench, and whispered:--

"That was the cry of our child during the past night."

And the Pastor continued. "She felt that if it were only day, if she
could only see the light of the sun in the sky, she could better bear
her burden--but still a bright star shone out in the night." The Pastor
inculcated on his people, how good it was sometimes voluntarily to
sacrifice a few hours of sleep, to watch the stars in the night sky; he
then returned to the words of his text, and invoked a blessing on the
heads of all those, who had this day made a good deed the porch through
which they came to church.

Not a breath was heard; no coughing, no whispering was heard on this
occasion--which at evening service is but too common, as if to protest
against thus reversing the usual order of life. Every one seemed to
hold their breath, and, when the singing recommenced, the old walls
rung with the sounds of the hymn.

The Pastor then in few and simple words, performed the marriage
ceremony between Adam and Martina, and the congregation quietly
dispersed, amid the renewed ringing of bells. Some lads had loaded
their guns, intending to fire them off after the wedding, but they were
prevented doing so by those who were leaving church. All felt so
solemnized in spirit, that they shrunk from any noisy demonstrations;
the pious feelings which the Pastor had inspired in his congregation,
rendered them averse to all clamour; and when the moon rose at one
o'clock in the morning, dispersing the cold snowy fog, it shone down on
a calm, sleeping village, where all slumbering hearts were at rest, and
happy.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                               DAYLIGHT.


It was a happy waking hour to all next morning, every eye shone
brightly, and each saluted his neighbour gaily, saying, "Good morning!
beautiful weather!" while in truth the most beautiful atmosphere was
within their own hearts. The sun above was certainly most brilliant,
and the snow covered hills and trees glittered in the rays of the
morning light; but the best of all was, that there was something to
gladden all hearts of a less changeable nature than the weather: a
child had been saved, and parents and grandparents made happy; a
delightful wedding had taken place, though there had been neither
baking nor roasting, nor clattering of plates and dishes. And how
admirably and faithfully did the Pastor expound the truth! What a sad
thing it was that he persisted in leaving them, when they would gladly
have kept him for ever!

In the attic in Schilder-David's house, Adam and Martina were standing
by the bed of little Joseph, who was still fast asleep, though a bright
streak of sunshine, as wide as the little garret window could admit,
shone right on the face of the boy. There was an expression of saucy
petulance on the features of the child; his head was thrown back, his
lips curled and half opened, and his clenched fist lay close to his
rosy cheek.

"I will wake him; it is time," said Martina.

"Do let him sleep on, to oblige me. I am just the same when I have
undergone any great excitement, I could sleep on for three days and
nights without stirring. How pretty a child looks asleep! I never saw
him asleep before." Thus talked Adam and Martina, and looked fondly at
their child.

Adam felt as if there was not room for him in the attic. He sat down on
Martina's trunk, and, in such a gentle voice that it appeared to
proceed from some one else, begged her to stand out of the light, that
he might see Joseph, distinctly.

"I will remain here till he wakes," said he; and Martina told him again
and again, how Joseph on the preceding night had called out "Is it not
yet morning?" At the sound of these words the boy turned and moved
restlessly, but continued sleeping.

His mother now, however, bent over him, and called out to him in a
clear, ringing voice, "Mother, is it not yet light? The light is come,
Joseph! wake up. Your father is here."

Joseph now looked up with a face of surprise and curiosity, but he
began to cry bitterly from terror, when the gigantic form of his father
stood upright in the small attic; he probably appeared to the child
like some monstrous apparition in a dream, and when the large figure
interposed like a gloomy cloud, between the bed and the sunlight, the
attic seemed almost as dark as night. Martina had no little trouble in
pacifying the boy. Adam was obliged to leave the room till Joseph was
dressed, and during the few minutes that he was standing outside the
attic, while the mother was soothing the child, feelings of remorse for
his past transgression again smote him--but only for a moment; he was
Adam Roettmann still, who could and would be master of all; he was angry
with the boy, who did not seem to care for him, nor to clasp him round
the neck as he expected; he was resolved to teach him by stern
discipline, and that this very day, he must love and honour him as his
father.

When Joseph came out of the room he ran down stairs quickly, past Adam.

"The boy must be taught differently; this is not proper conduct towards
his father," said Adam to Martina, indignantly.

She, however, begged him to think how much the boy must love him, to go
in search of him through the snow, and at night, so fearlessly; as yet,
however, the child was naturally shy, and his father still a stranger
to him. Adam must try to win the love of his boy by gentleness and
kindness, and not suppose he could do this by force.

"You are right, quite right," said Adam, and he went down the narrow
stairs with such a heavy tread that the small house shook. Joseph was
in the room below, seated on Schilder-David's knee, and Adam called to
the boy, "You are to get a present from me to-day; what would you like?
Tell me."

The boy did not come, but knit his brows, and looked at his father with
a shy glance. He left his grandfather, but did not go to his father; he
was staring with astonishment at the nail on the wall over the stove,
for there hung a written document framed. Long before daylight,
Schilder-David had replaced there Martina's Confirmation Certificate. A
bright gleam of sunshine lighted up the text, which was: Revelations
3rd chapter, 11th verse. "Hold that fast which thou hast, that no man
take thy crown."

In another house in the village, however, there was weeping and
wailing, and that too in the best of all. In the Parsonage the maid sat
in the kitchen, crying bitterly: "The fine fat goose, which was to have
been roasted this very day, and it was the very thing for such a
welcome guest: such a lovely bird, and so well frozen by hanging
outside the window! and now in all the confusion last night, it has
been stolen. I am sure it ought to choke those who were so wicked as to
steal from the Pastor; and how like an angel he spoke to them, and
thanked them for what they had done--and now they play him such a trick
as this! He ought to bring it into his sermon today, and preach to them
on an appropriate text; and the first man that coughs, has stolen the
goose, I will go through the whole village, to spy out who has got my
goose. I will find out whether the fox, the wolf, a dog, a weasel, or a
raven has stolen it; but more likely far some wicked wretch, intending
to roast it. I am resolved to get it back; we have really nothing for
dinner to-day." These, and many other lamentations were poured forth
amid bitter tears, and scolding, and execrations, by the maid in the
kitchen, till at last the Pastor came into the kitchen, saying, "What
is going on here?" The fact was duly detailed to him, and, as a proof
of her assertion, the maid pointed out the empty hook on which the
goose had hung outside the window.

"The hook is still there, but the goose is gone," said the girl,
sobbing, and laying hold of the hook, as if she thought it the very
thing to hang the thief upon. Brother Edward also came in, and the maid
begged him to oblige her by looking at the hook. The Pastor turning to
his brother-in-law, said, "It is often thus; just the very last
delicate morsel, carefully cherished, falls on the floor, when it is
actually stuck on your fork."

"And you are positively making a jest of it!" said the Pastorin to her
husband; "you men never seem to have any idea of the great difficulty
of preparing a good dinner in the country, and how pleasant it is when
all is prepared; and it seemed quite a happy chance that my mother sent
me some chesnuts."

"I am not making a jest of it; on the contrary, it is very annoying to
me."

"The greatest annoyance to you is, assuredly, that any person here is
capable of being a thief. They cannot, however, enjoy the fruits of
their theft, I feel sure," interrupted Edward.

"By no means: I am so material in my nature, that I should have liked
excessively to have myself enjoyed a fine, well browned, crisp, roast
goose;--and as for the thief? If the goose had been stolen from any one
else, the man would have equally been a thief, but it would vex me less
than now, when I have lost my own goose and the giblets too."

"We have still got the giblets," said the maid, in a soothing tone.
They all laughed, and at that moment the letter carrier came up the
stair. He brought the country newspaper. The Pastor hastily looked over
the clerical intelligence, and there, sure enough, he saw that the
living in Odenwald, for which he had applied, had been given away to
another clergyman, a much younger man, and one of the new fashioned
stiff necked species.

"You see here is another empty hook," said the Pastor, giving the
newspaper to his wife, and pointing out the paragraph to her.

Along with the newspaper was a letter from their uncle, the President,
announcing the appointment of another to the living, but that there was
great anxiety to induce our Pastor to take a charge in the Capital.

"I shall refuse, and remain here," said the Pastor, abruptly.

The cook of the Parsonage, who went to the inn in order to buy some
meat to replace the missing goose, had two pieces of news to spread
abroad which had no great connexion certainly, but which she mixed up
together in the most singular manner: the stolen goose, and the Pastor
staying in the village.

The bells rung out in soft melodious peals in the bright light; this
ringing on Christmas-day is appropriately termed a "lullaby." When the
Pastor again entered the church he found the villagers assembled, and
crowded together from the door of the Parsonage all the way to the
church, and they all saluted their Pastor kindly, in token of their
gratitude and joy, that he was now to remain till the day of his death
in this parish.

While the organ sounded in the church, a figure, closely muffled in a
cloak, glided past the kitchen of the Vicarage, and unexpectedly a fat
goose was once more suspended by its legs on the hook outside the
window. Was it the stolen one or another? was it the thief restoring
what he had taken, or some good hearted person replacing it by another?
This could never be ascertained. The cook declared that she knew how to
shut her eyes, that she had neither recognized the person, nor did she
wish to do so. She was, however, so overjoyed, that she hurried to the
vestry, to tell the Pastor that there was no occasion for him to preach
about the stolen goose, for it was come back. She did not venture to go
into the vestry, and went home again. "He is too sensible a man," said
she, "to preach about a goose," and there she was perfectly right.

Little Joseph went to church with his parents, holding a hand of each;
he looked curiously at the people he met, but said nothing, only
clinging close to his father. At the church door the parents dismissed
Joseph to join his schoolfellows, and themselves separated--one joining
the women, and the other the men--in their different parts of the
church; but the two were now united, the same building containing them,
and their voices harmonizing together. The singing was not so perfect
as usual, for the best singer was wanting, who had often with his deep
bass notes helped the schoolmaster out of a difficulty. Haespele failed
the choir, for he was so hoarse that he could not speak a word, far
less sing.

When little Joseph joined his comrades, some of them asked him--"Do you
know what you are called now?"

"Joseph Roettmann, just as I always was."

"No, Joseph in the Snow, that's your new name," and they persevere in
calling him by that name to this day.

In the course of the afternoon many healths were drank in the inn to
the worthy Pastor, and also to "Joseph in the Snow," and each had much
to tell of all that had occurred during the night. The terror would
have been a hundredfold increased, had they known all the steepness of
the rocks and precipices. It seemed a much greater wonder that no one
had been injured, than even little Joseph having made his way straight
to the Forest Mill through so many perils. Schilder-David was at home,
dressed in his Sunday clothes, seated before his large Bible, carefully
reading its precious words--running his finger along the lines as a
guide--from where he had left off two evenings before. Schilder-David
lived out his life in his usual quiet fashion, constantly reading his
Bible from beginning to end. There had been a wonderful combination of
mercies for him, and all had turned out for the best.

At noon a messenger came into the village, and declared that there was
a corpse lying in the Forest Mill.

"The Roettmaennin!" exclaimed all.

"No! the Forest Miller himself; it seems he must have died last night,
but it was only discovered to-day. There is no doubt that he killed
himself by trying to drink as hard as Speidel-Roettmann, and I hear
nothing could be more horrible than to hear the Roettmaennin, who tried
to wake him at night to come to her aid, scolding and cursing. It was a
dead man she was raging at."

All shuddered, and certainly the death of the Forest Miller was much
deplored, but he ought to have died at some other time, for now people
spoke less of Joseph's rescue, and more of the Forest Miller's sudden
death.

No one was more horrorstruck by this sudden death than Leegart; it
showed that she did know more than other people: she can by her wishes,
wish the death of a man. She had incautiously wished that there should
be poison in all the spices he bought from the grocer, and in all the
wine from Roessler's Inn. A shudder of pleasure and awe crept through
her veins, that she should be endowed with such miraculous gifts. She
dared not venture to leave the house; every one must be well aware of
what she had done, and she sincerely regretted it; she had not really
intended the man's death. I will take good care, vowed she to herself,
never to do anything of the kind again; I wish nothing but good to the
whole world, and even to the Roettmaennin herself. At last she ventured
to go to Martina, and said privately to her in the attic: "I beg you
will, in a quiet way, take care that none of the women to whom I was
talking yesterday repeat what I wished with regard to the Forest
Miller. Men are apt to be vastly superstitious, and might at last
actually believe, that I knew more than other people; but I don't wish
to have this reputation." Leegart was only half pleased, when Martina
assured her that no one thought about the matter, and that the world
was not so silly as to believe in such things. Leegart thought to
herself: "Martina is very stupid, but I am thankful if I alone have the
gift of knowing what is to come to pass in the world." She shrunk from
every evil thought, that had ever hitherto passed through her mind with
regard to others, or was yet to pass. It was a dreadful responsibility
to possess such a gift, and to be able to influence the fate of others
just as she chose. Whenever the women came to pay her a visit Leegart
never failed to repeat: "I mean well to the whole world; no one can
have better intentions than I have. I wish every one, without a single
exception, all that is good."

No one understood what Leegart meant, but all agreed in saying--

"Yes, indeed, you were always kind to everybody."

"And do you know what I am going to say?" exclaimed Leegart, with
sparkling eyes, "I say nothing but this: the Parsonage, and Tony of the
Forest Mill. Remember that I said it--I say no more."

Soon after the news came of the miller's death, the Pastor and his
wife, escorted by Edward, drove to the Forest Mill; and it was
fortunate they did so, for they found Tony in a perfect agony of grief
and remorse, for she had gone through so much that was dreadful since
yesterday, and she continually blamed herself, that in studying the
welfare of others she had forgotten her father.

Tony welcomed the Pastorin as a guardian angel, and she became more
composed when she promised to stay with her. Edward begged she would
give him something to do for her; Tony looked at him intently, and drew
close to the Pastorin.

The newly made widow at the mill howled and lamented horribly, and when
the Pastor addressed her she scarcely listened to him, but stared
incessantly at Tony, as if she would have poisoned her by her glances.
The martyr was now free, and her tormentor was forced to quit the house
a beggar.

Let people contend against it as they will: Leegart must positively
have known something!

Tony went to the Parsonage at the new year, and continued to reside
their during her year of mourning. By degrees she revived from her deep
sorrow, and looked quite as pretty as she did before, only her beauty
had become far more refined.

At midsummer large additions were made to the Forest Mill, and Edward
often came to visit his sister, and he never was at the Parsonage
without going to the Forest Mill, and seeing that all the arrangements,
and instructions were properly carried out.

Leegart often went to the Parsonage to work there, and might have told
a great deal about the harmony and good feeling that prevailed between
the Pastorin and Tony; the latter being most thankful to be instructed
by the Pastorin in all matters. But Leegart had made a firm resolution
to speak very little in future; it was only at Roettmannshof, where the
young Roettmaennin now lived, that she poured forth her heart. Nowhere
was Leegart more at home, than at Roettmannshof, and she often said:
"Nothing can be more delightful than to see that great strong Adam,
carrying his little daughter about in his arms, and playing with her;
no one could have believed that he was so handy and clever."

When Leegart had made the first short frock for the little girl, and a
very pretty bright pink one it was, Adam, when he had the child in his
arms, was not a little proud of having taught her, when any one asked,
"Where is your pretty frock?" to lift up the frock to shew her finery.

Leegart was in a state of never ending awe and wonder at Adam's gentle
ways, and Martina could not resist saying, "He often says that he had
no enjoyment of little Joseph's infant years, so he is resolved to make
up for it now. Nothing makes him happier."

The fierce old Roettmaennin had long since passed away. She would not
allow it, but the horrible manner in which she had raged at and cursed
the dead miller, constantly recurred to her thoughts. She sent for a
lawyer, and desired him to prepare a document, to be laid before the
Consistorial Court, declaring the marriage of Martina and Adam to be
null and void; she, however, never saw the end of this lawsuit, for she
died before the snow was fully melted, through which Joseph had gone to
meet his father.

When the Pastor now stands in the pulpit he sees beneath him, in
the front row, two fine looking young men, who are the best of
friends--Adam Roettmann and the young Forest Miller, Edward, who has
married Tony.

"Joseph in the Snow" lives in winter in the village with
Schilder-David, in order that he may be near school; he is a fine well
informed lad.

Haespele always maintains that a boy who ran such risks, and was the
means of effecting such a happy and strange revolution, cannot fail to
become a remarkable man.

Leegart, however, invariably adds, "Whatever you do, pray don't
prophesy; it is such a frightful responsibility." She knows the future
fate of "Joseph in the Snow," but she wisely keeps it to herself.



                      END OF 'JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.'




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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker, by
Berthold Auerbach

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