The peasants displayed some curiosity to see a few of the articles, but old Schmitz declared himself unable to satisfy it, because the antiquities were so carefully packed and put away with such ingenious use of every bit of space that it would be difficult, if it were once taken out, to get the entire load back in again. The Justice said something into the servant's ear, and the latter went into the house. In the meanwhile the Collector told in detail all about the places where he had come across the various acquisitions; then he moved his chair nearer to his host and said confidentially:

"But what is by far the most important discovery of this trip—I have now really found the actual place where Hermann defeated Varus!"

"You don't mean it?" replied the Justice, pushing his cap back and forth.

"They have all been on the wrong track—Clostermeier, Schmid, and whatever the names of the other people may be who have written about it!" cried the Collector ardently. "They have always thought that Varus withdrew in the direction of Aliso—the exact situation of which no man has ever discovered—well, anyway, in a northerly direction, and in accordance with that theory the battle is supposed to have taken place between the sources of the Lippe and the Ems, near Detmold, Lippspring, Paderborn, and God knows where else!"

The Justice said: "I think that Varus had to try with all his might to reach the Rhine, and that he could have done only by gaining the open country. The battle is said to have lasted three days, and in that length of time you can march a good distance. Hence I am rather of the opinion that the attack in the mountains which surround our plain did not take place very far from here."

"Wrong, wrong, Justice!" cried the Collector. "Here below everything was occupied and blocked up by the Cherusci, Catti, and Sigambri. No the battle was much farther south, near the region of the Ruhr, not far from Arnsberg. Varus had to push his way through the mountains, he had no egress anywhere, and his mind was bent on reaching the middle Rhine, whither the road leads diagonally across Sauerland. That is what I have always thought, and now I have discovered the most unmistakable evidence of it. Close by the Ruhr I found the bronze and bought the three idols, and a man from the village told me that hardly an hour's walk from there was a place in the woods among the mountains where an enormous quantity of bones were piled up in the sand and gravel. Ha! I exclaimed, the day is beginning to break. I went out there with a few peasants, had them excavate a little, and, behold! we came across bones to my heart's content. So that is the place where Germanicus had the remnants of the Roman legions buried six years after the battle of Teutoburg Wood, when he directed his last expeditions against Hermann. And I have therefore discovered the right battlefield."

"Bones do not ordinarily preserve themselves for a thousand years and more," said the Justice, shaking his head doubtfully.

"They have become petrified among the minerals there," said the collector angrily. "I'll have to put an evidence of my theory in your hand—here is one I have brought with me." He drew forth a large bone from his shirt and held it before his opponent's eyes. "Now, what do you call that?" he asked triumphantly.

The peasants stared at the bone in amazement. The Justice, after he had examined it, replied: "A cow's bone, Mr. Schmitz! You discovered a carrion-pit, not the battlefield of Teutoburg."

The Collector indignantly put the discredited antiquity back into its place and uttered a few violent imprecations, to which the old peasant knew the most effective way to reply. It seemed as if a quarrel might ensue between the two men, but as a matter of fact the appearances were of no significance. For it was a common thing for them, whenever they got together, to disagree about this and similar matters. But in spite of these controversies they always remained good friends. The Collector, who, in order to follow up his hobbies, even begrudged himself bread, was in the habit all the year round of feeding himself for weeks at a time out of the full meat-pots of the Oberhof, and in return for it he helped along his host's business by doing all kinds of writing for him. For the Collector had formerly been, by profession, a sworn and matriculated Imperial Notary.

Finally, after a great deal of fruitless argument on both sides, the Justice said: "I won't wrangle with you over the battlefield, although I still persist in my belief that Hermann defeated Varus somewhere around this neighborhood. As a matter of fact it doesn't make any particular difference to me where it happened—the question is one for the scholars. For if the other Roman general, six years afterwards, as you have often told me, marched into this region with another army, then the whole battle had but little significance."

"You don't know anything about it!" exclaimed the Collector. "The present existence and position of Germany rests entirely upon the battle won by Hermann. If it had not been for Hermann 'the liberator,' you would not be occupying these extensive premises now, marked off by your hedges and stakes. But you people simply live along from one day to the next, and have no use for history and antiquity."

"Oho, Mr. Schmitz, you do me great injustice there," replied the old peasant proudly. "God knows what pleasure it gives me to sit down of a winter evening and read the chronicles and histories, and you yourself know that I treat the sword of Carolus Magnus (the old man pronounced the second syllable long), which has now for a thousand years and more been in the possession of the Oberhof, as I do the apple of my eye, and consequently—"

"The sword of Charles the Great!" exclaimed the Collector scornfully. "Friend, is it impossible to get these notions out of your head? Listen—"

"I say and maintain that it is the genuine and actual sword of Carolus Magnus with which he here at the Oberhof located and established the 'Freemen's Tribunal.' And even today the sword still performs and fulfils its office, although nothing further may be said about it." The old man uttered these words with an expression on his features and a gesture which had something sublime in them.

"And I say and maintain that all that is sheer nonsense!" exclaimed the Collector with emphasis. "I have examined the old toasting-iron no less than a hundred times, and it isn't five hundred years old! It comes down perhaps from the time of the feud of Soest, when very likely one of the Archbishop's cavalrymen crawled into the bushes here and left it."

"The devil take you!" cried the Justice, pounding his fist on the table. Then he mumbled softly to himself "Just wait; you'll get your punishment for that this very day!"

The servant came out of the door. He was carrying a terra-cotta jug with a rather large circumference and a strange, exotic appearance, gripping it firmly and carefully by the handles with both hands.

"Oh!" cried the Collector, when he had obtained a closer view of it. "What a splendid large amphora! Where did it come from?"

The Justice replied with an air of indifference: "Oh, I found the old jug in the ditch a week ago when we were digging out gravel. There was a lot more stuff around there, but the men smashed it all to pieces with their picks. This jug was the only thing they spared, and, inasmuch as you are here, I wanted you to see it."

The Collector looked at the large, well-preserved vessel with moist eyes. Finally he stammered: "Can't we strike a bargain for it?"

"No," replied the peasant coldly. "I'll keep the pot for myself." He motioned to the servant, and the latter started to carry the amphora back into the house. He was prevented from doing so, however, by the Collector, who, without turning his eyes away from it, besought its owner with all kinds of lively arguments to turn the longed-for wine-jug over to him. But it was all in vain; the Justice, in the face of the most urgent entreaties, maintained an attitude of unshakable composure. In this way he formed the motionless centre-figure of the group, of which the peasants, listening to the business with open mouths, the servant tugging the jug with both handles toward the house, and the antiquarian holding on to the lower end, constituted the excited lateral and secondary figures. Finally the Justice said that he had been of a mind to give the jug to his guest along with several other pieces which he had previously discovered, because he himself would take pleasure in seeing the old things arranged in order on the shelves of the collection around the room, but that the constant attacks made by the Collector against the sword of Carolus Magnus had annoyed him, and that he had decided, therefore, to keep the jug after all.

Thereupon, after a pause, the Collector said in a dejected tone that to err was human, that medieval weapons could not always be distinguished with certainty as to their age, that he himself was less of an expert in these than in Roman relics, and that there were after all many things about the sword which seemed to indicate a more remote age, before the feud of Soest. Whereupon the Justice replied that general statements of that kind were of no use to him; he wanted to have the dispute and doubt regarding his sword settled once and for all, and there was only one way for the Collector to gain possession of the old jug, namely, by writing out on the spot a signed statement, wherein he should formally recognize the sword kept in the Oberhof as the actual sword of Charles the Great.

On hearing this a severe conflict ensued in the Collector's mind between his antiquarian conscience and his antiquarian longing. He pouted his lips and tapped with his fingers about the spot where he had concealed the bone from the battlefield of Teutoburg. Evidently he was striving to subdue the exhortations of a desire which was seducing him into signing an untruthful statement. Finally, however, passion, as is always the way, got the upper hand; suddenly demanding pen and paper, he made out in hot haste, now and then casting furtive glances at the amphora, a direct statement to the effect that he, after frequent examinations of it, recognized and declared the sword in the Oberhof as one formerly belonging to the Emperor, Charles the Great.

This document the Justice had signed by the two peasants as witnesses; then he folded the paper several times and put it into his pocket. Old Schmitz, on the other hand, made a quick grab for the amphora which he had purchased at the expense of his better judgment. The Justice said that he would deliver the jug to him in the city on the following day. But what collector could ever get along, even for a minute, without the actual possession of a piece of property acquired at so high a price? Our Collector resolutely declined to submit to any delay; he had a string brought to him, ran it through the handles, and suspended the large wine-jug over his shoulders. After that, the Collector having first been invited to the wedding, the two men parted in the best of humor; and the latter with his bulging angularities, his swelled-up, protruding coat-tails, and with the amphora bobbing back and forth at his left side, made a remarkable spectacle as he walked away.

The peasants wished their adviser a good morning, promised to bear his advice in mind, and departed, each one to his own farmstead. The Justice, who, dealing with all the people who had come to him in the course of an hour, had successfully handled everything undertaken, first took the newly-acquired document of recognition to the room where he kept the sword of Charles the Great, and then went with the servant to the granary to measure out oats for the horses.

CHAPTER III

THE OBERHOF

"Westphalia formerly consisted of individual estates, each one of which had its own free possessor. Several such estates constituted a Bauerschaft (peasant community), which, as a rule, bore the name of the oldest estate. It lay in the original character of the peasant communities that the oldest estate should also stand first in rank and come to be the most aristocratic, and here from time to time the children, grandchildren and house-inmates, ceasing work for a few days, came together and feasted. The beginning, or else the end, of the summer was the usual time for this event, and then every estate-owner brought along with him for the feast some of the fruits which he himself had raised, and perhaps a calf or lamb as well. Then all sorts of matters were discussed, opinions were exchanged, marriages performed, deaths made known, and then the son, as the succeeding head of his father's estate, was sure to make his first appearance in the company with fuller hands and a choicer animal. Disagreements were unavoidable on these days of joy, and in the event of one, the father, as the head of the oldest estate, stepped in and, with the approval of the rest, put an end to the quarrel. If during the previous year any of the estate-owners had disagreed about some matter, both of them brought forward their grievances before the next gathering, and both were satisfied with whatever decision their fellows deemed right and just. After all the eatables had been devoured, and the tree set aside for the occasion had been burned up, the feast, or the gathering, came to an end. Each one returned home, related the events of the occasion to the waiting members of his household, and came to be a living and continuing authority regarding all the happenings of their peasant community.

These gatherings were called Conferences, Peasant Conferences, because all the estate-owners of a peasant community came together to confer with one another, and also Peasant Tribunals, because here the conflicting claims of the men, already by tacit agreement combined in a union, were either settled or rejected. Inasmuch as the Peasant Conferences or Peasant Tribunals were held at the oldest and most aristocratic estate, such an estate was called Court Estate, and the Peasant Conferences and Peasant Tribunals were called Court Conferences and Court Tribunals; and the latter, even at the present day, have not entirely disappeared. The oldest estate, the Court Estate, was called by way of distinction simply the Estate, the name whereby the people designated the Main Estate or the Oberhof of the peasant community, and its owner as the head or chief of the rest.

Thus in a general way we account for the origin of the first association and the first judicial arrangement of the Westphalian Estates or peasant communities. It is the less surprising when we consider that the former condition of Westphalia permitted only a slow increase of population and a gradual development of agriculture; and precisely this gradual progress led to those simple and uniform arrangements, as also to the similarity of culture, manners and customs, which we find among the ancient inhabitants of Westphalia."



This passage from Kindlinger's Contributions to the History of the Diocese of Muenster conducts us to the scene of our story. It throws a light on our hero, the Justice. He was the owner of one of the largest and wealthiest of the Main Estates, or Oberhofs, which still exist in those regions, but which, to be sure, have now fused together to a small number.

There is something remarkable about the first traditions of a tribe, and the people as a whole have just as long a memory as the individual persons, who are wont to retain faithfully to extreme old age the impressions of early childhood. When now we consider that an individual human life may last as long as ninety years, and, furthermore, that the years of a people are as centuries, it is no longer a matter of wonder to us that, in the regions where the events of our story took place, we still here and there come across much that points back to the time when the great Emperor of the Franks succeeded, by means of fire and sword, in converting the obstinate inhabitants.

And so if, in the place where once the Supreme Justice and the heir of the region lived, Nature once more awakens special qualities in a person, there may grow up amid these thousand-year-old memories and between the boundaries and ditches which are, after all, still recognizable, a figure like our Justice, whose right of existence is not acknowledged by the powers of the present, to be sure, but which for its own self, and among its own kind, may temporarily restore a condition which disappeared long ago.

Let us look around in the Oberhof itself. If the praise of a friend is always very ambiguous, then surely one may trust the envy of an enemy; and the person most worthy of credit is a horse-dealer, who calls special attention to the comfortable circumstances of a peasant with whom he could not agree in a matter of business. To be sure, one could not say, as the horse-dealer Marx did, that the surroundings reminded one of a count's estate; on the other hand, in whatever direction one looked there was an atmosphere of peasant prosperity and opulence which could not but call out to the hungriest stranger: Here you can eat your fill; the plate is never empty.

The estate lay entirely alone on the border of the fertile plain, at the point where it passes over into hilly woodland; indeed, the Justice's last fields lay on a gentle slope, and a mile away were the mountains. The nearest neighbor in the peasant community lived a quarter of an hour away from the estate, around which were spread out all the possessions which a large country household had need of—fields, woods and meadows, all in compact uninterrupted continuity.

From the foot of the hills the fields ran down in beautiful order across the plain. It was, moreover, about the time when the rye was in blossom; its exhalation, as a thank-offering of the soil, rose from the spikelets and was wafted aloft on the warm summer breezes. Single rows of high-trunked ashes and knotty elms, planted on either side of the old boundary ditches, inclosed a part of the cornfields, and, being visible from afar, indicated, more definitely than stones and stakes can do, the limits of the inheritance. A deep road ran between dikes of earth diagonally across the fields, branched off into paths at several places on both sides, and led, at the point where the grain ceased, into a vigorous and well-kept oak grove, under which a number of hogs were comfortably imbedded in the soil, the shade of which, however, was equally refreshing to human beings. This grove, which supplied the Justice with wood, extended to within a few paces of the farmhouse and inclosed it on two sides, thus, at the same time, affording it protection against the east and north winds.

The house, which had two stories, and the walls of which were of panel-work painted white and yellow, was roofed only with straw; but, as the latter was always kept in the very best condition, it did not produce an impression of poverty, but, on the contrary, rather increased the general effect of comfort which the house imparted. Of the inside we shall learn more anon; suffice it to say for the present that on the other side of the house there was a large yard, surrounded by barns and stables, in the plastered walls of which the keenest eye could not detect a faulty spot. Large lindens stood before the front door, and there too, but not on the wall side, seats were placed, as we have already seen. For the Justice, even when he was resting, wanted to keep an eye on his household.

Directly opposite the house one looked through a lattice gate into the orchard, where strong and healthy fruit-trees spread their leafy branches out over the fresh grass, vegetables and lettuce. Here and there, in between, little beds of red roses and fire-lilies were thriving. Of the latter, however, there were very few, for a true peasant devotes his ground only to necessary things, even when his circumstances permit him to cultivate some of nature's luxuries.

Everything beyond the orchard, as far as the eye could see, was green. For on the other side of the garden lay the extensive meadows of the Oberhof, in which the Justice had room and fodder for his horses. Their breeding, carried on with great industry, was one of the most lucrative sources of income the estate enjoyed. These verdant meadows were also surrounded by hedges and ditches; one of them, moreover, contained a pond in which well-fed carp swam about in shoals.

On this rich estate, surrounded by full barns, full lofts and stables, dwelt the old, widely respected Justice. But if one climbed the highest hill on the border of his land, one could see from there the towers of three of the oldest cities in Westphalia.

At the time of which I speak it was approaching eleven o'clock in the forenoon. The whole vast estate was so quiet that scarcely any noise was audible, save the rustling of the leaves in the tree-tops. The Justice was measuring out oats to his servant, who flung each sack across his shoulders and trudged slowly over to the stable with it. The daughter was counting up her dowry of linen and wool, and a maid was working in the kitchen. All the other dwellers on the estate were lying asleep; for it was just before the harvest-time, when peasants have the least to do, and the workmen use every spare minute for sleep, in order to prepare themselves, in a measure, for the approaching days of toil and sweat. For in general, country people, like dogs, can, if they wish to, sleep at all hours of the day and night.

CHAPTER IV

WHEREIN THE HUNTER SENDS HIS COMPANION OUT AFTER A PERSON BY THE NAME OF SCHRIMBS OR PEPPEL, AND COMES HIMSELF TO THE OBERHOF

From the hills which bordered the Justice's fields there came forth two men of different appearance and age. The one, clad in a green hunter's jacket, with a little cap on his curly head and a light Liege gun on his arm, was a strikingly handsome youth; the other, dressed in more quiet colors, was an elderly man with a frank and sincere manner. The younger strode on ahead, as nimbly as a stag, while the older maintained a somewhat slower gait, like that of a worn-out hunting-dog lagging behind the master to whom he is still ever faithful. After they had emerged into an open space at the foot of the hills, they both sat down on a large stone, which lay there beside several others in the shade of a mighty linden. The younger man gave some money and papers to the older, pointed out to him the direction in which he was to continue his way, and said:

"Go now, Jochem, and be discreet, so that we can get hold of this confounded Schrimbs or Peppel who has been inventing such monstrous lies, and as soon as you discover him, let me know."

"I'll be discreet all right," replied old Jochem. "I'll make such sly and secret inquiries in all the villages and cities about a man who signs his name Schrimbs or Peppel, that it would have to be the devil's own fault if I don't succeed in locating the wretch. In the meanwhile you lie low here incognito, until you receive further news from me."

"Very well," said the young man, "and now, Jochem, be very cautious and thoughtful all the time in the way you handle the matter, for we are no longer in dear Suabia, but out among the Saxons and Franks."

"The miserable fellows!" exclaimed old Jochem. "Faith, they have long talked about Suabian stupidities! They shall see that a Suabian can be a sly bird too when it is necessary."

"And keep always to the right, my Jochem, for the last tracks of this Schrimbs or Peppel are headed that way," said the young man, standing up and giving the old man a cordial parting handshake.

"Always to the right, of course," replied the latter. He handed over to the other his hunting-bag, which was stuffed full, and which up to now he had been carrying, lifted his hat and went off, following a side-path at the right, down toward the region where, in the distance, one could see towering up one of the steeples mentioned in the foregoing chapter.

The young man, on the other hand, went directly down toward the Oberhof. He had taken perhaps a hundred steps when he heard somebody running behind him and panting. He turned around and saw that his old companion was hurrying after him.

"There was one more thing I wanted to ask and beg of you," the latter cried. "Now that you are alone and left to yourself, get rid of your gun; for you certainly won't hit anything and, sure as death, you will have a mishap again, as you almost did not long ago when you fired at the hare and came very near killing the child."

"Yes, it is damnable to be always firing at things and never hitting them," said the young man. "But, truly, I'll put restraint on myself, no matter how hard it may be to do it, and not a single shot shall fly out of these barrels as long as you are away from me."

The old man begged him for the gun, but the young man refused to give it up, saying that, without a gun, it would surely cost no self-restraint to refrain from shooting, and that his method of procedure would then lose all its merit.

"That is very true," replied the old man, and, without bidding his companion a second good-by, inasmuch as the first one still held good, he went back reassured, along the path which had been pointed out to him.

The young man stood still, rested the gun on the ground, thrust the ramrod into the barrel, and said:

"It will be difficult to get the charge out, and yet it can't stay in." With that he tossed the gun over his shoulder and walked in the direction of the Justice's oak grove. Just before he got there a drove of heath fowl started up from a narrow strip of borderland, flapping their wings and screaming loudly. In exultation the young man snatched the gun from his shoulder, crying: "Here's my chance to get rid of the shot forthwith!" and took aim. Both barrels went off with a roar, and the birds flew away uninjured. The hunter gazed after them in astonishment and said:

"This time I thought I couldn't have helped hitting something. Well, from now on I shall certainly restrain myself." With that he continued his way through the oak grove to the house.

When he entered the door he saw, sitting at dinner in a high and spacious hall which took up the entire centre of the house, the Justice, his daughter, his farm-hands and maids, and in a resonant, euphonious voice he gave them a friendly greeting. The Justice scrutinized him with care, the daughter with astonishment; as for the men and maids, they did not look at him at all, but went on eating without paying any attention to him. The Hunter approached the master of the estate and inquired about the distance to the nearest city and the way to get there. At first the Justice did not understand his strange-sounding language, but the daughter, without once turning her eyes from the handsome Hunter, helped her father to get the meaning, whereupon he gave the correct information. Only after three repetitions was the Hunter, on his part, able to understand the reply; but he finally succeeded in making out that the city was not to be reached in less than two long hours, and then only by a path which was difficult to find.

The midday heat, combined with the sight of the tidy meal before him and his own hunger, prompted the Hunter to ask the question whether for love or money he could have something to eat and drink and shelter till the cool of evening.

"For money, no!" replied the Justice, "but for love the gentleman may have dinner and supper and a place to rest as long as he wants it." He had a tin plate, as clear and bright as a mirror, a knife, a fork and a spoon, just as bright as the plate, laid upon the table, and pressed his guest to sit down. The latter fell upon the well-cooked ham, the big beans, the eggs and sausages, which constituted the meal, with all the appetite of youth, and discovered that the food of the country, which was everywhere decried as Boeotian, was, on the contrary, not at all bad.

Very little talking was done by the hosts, for peasants do not like to speak while they are eating. Howsoever, the Hunter, on inquiry, managed to find out from the Justice that no man by the name of Schrimbs or Peppel was known anywhere around in that vicinity. The farm-hands and maids, who sat apart from the seats of honor at the other end of the long table, kept absolutely silent and looked only at the dishes out of which they spooned their food into their mouths. After they had finished eating, however, and had wiped their mouths, they stepped up to the Justice, one after the other, and said: "Master, my motto;" whereupon the Justice addressed to each one a proverbial phrase or a biblical passage. Thus to the first man, a red-haired fellow, he said: "Proneness to dispute lights a fire, and proneness to fight sheds blood;" to the second, a slow, fat man: "Go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways and be wise;" to the third, a small, black-eyed, bold-looking customer: "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." The first maid received the motto: "If you have cattle, take care of them, and if they bring you profit, keep it;" and to the second he said: "Nothing's ever locked so tight but it will some day come to light."

After each one had been remembered in this way, they all went off to their work, some looking unconcerned, others embarrassed. The second girl blushed a deep crimson when she heard her motto. The Hunter, who was gradually learning to understand the local dialect, listened to this lesson with astonishment, and after it was over he asked what the purpose of it was.

"To give them something to think about," said the Justice. "When they come together here again tonight, each one of them will tell me what he or she has been thinking relative to the motto. Most of the work in the country is of such a kind that, in doing it, the people are liable to think all sorts of things, and they get a lot of bad notions in their heads, which afterwards break out in the form of wantonness, lies, and deception. But when a man has such a motto to ponder over, he will not rest until he has extracted the moral from it, and meanwhile the time has elapsed without any evil thoughts having entered his mind."

"You are a true philosopher and priest," cried the Hunter, whose amazement was increasing with every minute.

"One can accomplish a great deal with a person when one brings morality home to him," said the Justice thoughtfully. "But morality sticks in short sayings better than in long speeches and sermons. My people keep straight much longer since I hit upon the morality idea. To be sure it does not work all the year round; during planting and harvest-time all thinking ceases. But it isn't necessary then anyway, because they have no time for wickedness."

"You have, then, regular sections in your teaching?" asked the Hunter.

"In winter," replied the Justice, "the mottoes usually begin after threshing and last until sowing. In summer, on the other hand, they are assigned from Walpurgis Night until dog days. Those are the times when peasants have the least to do."

With that he left the young man, who got up and looked around in the house, the yard, the orchard, and the meadow. He spent several hours in this inspection, since everything he saw attracted him. The rural stillness, the green of the meadows, the prosperity which beamed upon him from the whole estate, all made a most pleasant impression, and aroused in him a desire to spend the one or two weeks that might elapse before he received news from old Jochem there in the open country rather than in the narrow alleys of a small city. Inasmuch as he wore his heart on his tongue, he went forthwith to the Justice, who was in the oak grove marking a pair of trees for felling, and expressed his wish. In return he offered to assist in anything that might be of use to his host.

Beauty is an excellent dowry. It is a key which, like that little one of gold, opens by magic seven locks, each one different from the rest. The old man gazed for a moment at the youth's slim yet robust figure and at his honest and at the same time splendidly aristocratic face, and at first shook his head persistently; then, however, he nodded approvingly, and, finally growing friendly, granted him his request. He assigned to the Hunter a corner room on the upper floor of the house, from one side of which one could see across the oak grove toward the hills and mountains, and from the other out over the meadows and corn fields. The guest had, to be sure, in place of paying for his room and board, to promise to fulfil a very peculiar condition. For the Justice did not like to have even beauty favored without an equivalent return.

CHAPTER V

THE HUNTER HIRES OUT AS POACHER

He asked the young man, before he promised him quarters, whether he was a lover of hunting, as his green suit, gun and hunting-bag seemed to indicate. The latter replied that, as far back as he could remember, he had always had a passion amounting to real madness for deer-shooting; in saying which, to be sure, he concealed the fact that, with the exception of a sparrow, a crow, and a cat, no creature of God had ever fallen victim to his powder and lead. This was in reality the case. He could not live without firing a few times a day at something, but he regularly missed his aim; in his eighteenth year he had killed a sparrow, in his twentieth a crow, and in his twenty-fourth a cat. And that was all.

After the Justice had received his guest's affirmative answer, he came out with his proposition, which was, namely, that the Hunter should every day lie out in the fields a few hours and keep off the wild animals, which were causing a great deal of injury to his corn fields, especially those lying on the slope at the foot of the hills.

"Yonder in the mountains," said the old peasant, "the noblemen have their great hunting-ranges. The creatures have already in past years eaten up and trampled down enough of my crops, but this is the first year that it has become serious. The reason is, that the young count over there is an ardent hunter and has enlarged his stock of game, so that his stags and roes come out of the forest like sheep and completely ruin the product of my toil and sweat. I myself do not understand the business, and I don't like to turn it over to my men because it gives them an easy chance, under the pretext of lying in wait, to become disorderly. Consequently the beasts have now and then worked enough havoc to make a man's heart ache. Your coming now is, therefore, very opportune, and if for these two weeks before harvest you will keep the creatures out of my corn for me, we'll call that payment for your room and board."

"What? I a poacher? I a game thief?" cried the man, and he laughed so loudly and heartily that the Justice could not help joining in. Still laughing, the latter ran his hand over the fine cloth of which his guest's clothing was made.

"That is just why I want you to do it," he said, "because with you there will be no particular danger even if you are caught. You will know how to get yourself out of it better than one of these poor farm laborers. Flies get caught in a cobweb, but wasps flit straight through them. But what kind of a crime is it anyway to protect your own property against monsters that eat it up and ruin it?" he cried, the laugh on his face suddenly changing into an expression of the most fervent anger. The veins in his brow swelled up, the blood in his cheeks turned deep crimson, and the whites of his eyes became bloodshot; one might have taken fright at the sight of the old man.

"You are right, father, there is nothing more unreasonable than the so-called hunting privileges," said the Hunter, in order to pacify him. "For that reason I will take upon myself the sin of violating the game laws of the local nobility in the interest of your estate, although by so doing I shall really be—"

He was going to add something more, but suddenly broke off and passed over to other indifferent matters.

But any one who thinks that the conversation between this Westphalian justice and the Suabian hunter ran as smoothly as my pen has written it down, is mistaken. On the contrary, it was frequently necessary for them to repeat several times before a barely sufficient understanding came about between them. Now and then they were even compelled to resort to making signs with their fingers. For in all his life the Justice had never heard ch pronounced after s; furthermore he brought all his sounds up out of his gullet, or, if you will, out of his throat. In the Hunter, on the other hand, the divine gift which distinguishes us from beasts was located between his front teeth and his lips, whence the sounds broke forth in a wonderful sonorous gravity and fulness and a buzzing sibilancy. But through these strange husks the young man and the old one soon learned to like each other. Inasmuch as both were men of full-weight, sterling stuff they could not fail to understand each other's inmost nature.

CHAPTER VI

THE HUNTER WRITES TO HIS FRIEND

Now I may write about things that are pleasant. I cannot possibly tell you how happy I am here in the solitude of this hill-girt Westphalian plain, where I have been quartered for a week among people and cattle. Among people and cattle is indeed literally the case, for the cows do actually stand right in the house on both sides of the large entrance-hall. There is, however, absolutely nothing unpleasant or unclean about this; on the contrary it rather helps to increase the impression of patriarchal house-management. In front of my window stand rustling oak-trees, and beyond them I look out on long, long meadows and waving cornfields, between which I see here and there a grove of oaks and a lone farmstead. For here it is as it was in the time of Tacitus: "Colunt discreti ac diversi, ut fons, ut campus, ut nemus placuit." Consequently even a single farm like this is a small State in itself, complete and rounded off, and the lord of it is just as much a king in his small domain as a real king on a throne.

My host is a splendid old fellow. He is called Justice, although he certainly has another name too; for that name, you see, has reference only to the ownership of his property. I hear, however, that this is the custom around here everywhere. For the most part only the estate has a name—the name of the owner sinks in that of the property; hence the earth-born, tough and enduring character of the people here. My Justice is a man of some sixty-odd years perhaps, but he carries a strong, large, rugged body, as yet unbent by age. In his reddish-yellow face is deposited the solar heat of the fifty harvests he has gathered in, his large nose stands out on his face like a tower, and his white, bristly eyebrows hang out over his glistening, blue eyes like a straw roof. He reminds me of a patriarch, who erects a monument of unhewn stones to the god of his ancestors and pours libations and oil upon it, rears his colts, cuts his corn, and at the same time judges and rules his people with unlimited authority. I have never come across a more compact mixture of venerability and cunning, reason and obstinacy; he is a genuine, old-time, free peasant in the full sense of the word. I believe that this is the only place where people of this kind are still to be found, here where precisely this living apart and this stubbornness peculiar to the ancient Saxons, combined with the absence of large cities, has perpetuated the original character of Germania. All governments and powers have merely skimmed over the surface here; they have perhaps been able to break off the tops of the various growths, but not to destroy their roots, from which fresh shoots have ever sprouted up again, even though they may no longer close together into leafy crowns.

The region is not at all what one would call beautiful, for it consists solely of billowy risings and fallings of the ground, and only in the distance does one see the mountains; furthermore, the latter look more like a dark hill-slope than a beautifully outlined mountain-range. But just this absence of pretension, the fact that the mountains do not seem to place themselves in dress parade directly in front of one's eyes and say: "How do you like me?" but rather, like a dutiful stewardess, to serve the tilth of human hands even down to the smallest detail—after all makes me like them very much, and I have enjoyed many a pleasant hour in my solitary rambles. Perhaps the fact has something to do with it that my heart can once more swing out its pendulum undisturbed, without having wise people tinkering and twisting at the clock-works.

I have even become poetic—what do you say to that, old Ernst? I have jotted down something to which a divinely beautiful Sunday that I spent some time ago in the wooded glens of the Spessart inspired me. I think you will like it. It is called: "The Marvels of the Spessart."

What I like best is to sit up on the hill in a quiet spot between the Justice's cornfields, which terminate there. In front of me there is a large depression in the ground, grown over with weeds and blackberry bushes, around which, in a circle, lie a lot of large stones. Over the largest of these, directly opposite the field, the branches of three old lindens spread out. Behind me rustles the forest. The spot is infinitely lonesome, secluded and secret, especially now that the corn is grown up, as tall as a man, behind it. I spend a great deal of time up there—not always, to be sure, in sentimental contemplation of nature; it is my usual evening watchpost, from which I shoot the stags and roes out of the Justice's corn.

They call the place the "Freemen's Tribunal." Presumably, in days of yore, the Fehme used to hatch out its sentences there in the darkness of the night. When I praised the place to my Justice, an expression of friendliness passed over his face. He made no reply, but after a time conducted me, without any inducement on my part, to a room on the upper floor of the house. There he opened an iron-bound trunk, showed me an old, rusty sword which was lying in it, and said with great solemnity: "That is a great curiosity; it is the sword of Charles the Great, preserved for a thousand and more years in the Oberhof, and still in full strength and power." Without adding any further explanations, he clapped the cover down again. I wouldn't for anything have shaken his belief in this sacred relic, although a fleeting glance convinced me that the broad-sword could scarcely be more than a few hundred years old. But he showed me too a formal attestation concerning the genuineness of the weapon, made out for him by an obliging provincial scholar.



Well, then, I shall stay here among the peasants until old Jochem sends me news of Schrimbs or Peppel. To be sure, in the course of my eighty-mile journey I have cooled down a little, for it makes considerable difference when two weeks intervene between a project and its execution. Furthermore the question now is: What sort of revenge shall I take on him? But all that will take care of itself later on.

Mentor, you shall soon hear more, I hope, from your Not-Telemachus.

CHAPTER VII

HOW THE HUNTER LIVES AT THE OBERHOF

Several days passed at the Oberhof in the usual quiet, monotonous way. Still no word came from old Jochem, regarding either himself or the escaped adventurer; and a mild anxiety gradually began, after a while, to steal over his young master. For nowadays time is so regulated and so enmeshes us that nobody, no matter how free and independent he may be, can long endure an existence which does not offer him some occupation or social relation to fall back on.

As much as he could, to be sure, the Hunter associated with the Justice, and the man's originality continued to attract him just as strongly as it had done on the first day of their acquaintance. But the old man was occupied the greater part of the time with matters pertaining to his household, and then he had, too, a great many things to discuss with outsiders, since every day people dropped in at the farm to solicit his help or advice. On these occasions the Hunter noticed that the Justice, in the truest sense of the word, never did anything gratis. For neighbors, relatives, and friends he was ready to do anything, but they had always to do something for him in return, even were it only an errand in a neighboring peasant community, or some other small service of this kind.

Every day something was fired at, but regularly missed; so that the old man, who invariably hit his mark, no matter what he aimed at, began to look with astonishment upon these futile efforts. It was a fortunate thing for our Hunter that the nearest estate-owner happened at that time to be away on a trip with his family and servants, otherwise the professional gunners up on the "Open Tribunal" would probably have caught him sooner or later.

At noon on the following day the Hunter heard a noise under his window; he looked out and saw that a number of men were standing in front of the house. Just then the Justice, dressed in his Sunday clothes, stepped out of the door, and at the same time a two-horse wagon drew up opposite by the oak grove. In the wagon was a man in black robes, apparently a clergyman; he was sitting among several baskets, in some of which fowls seemed to be fluttering. A little behind him sat a woman in bourgeois dress, who was holding another basket rigidly in her lap. In front by the horses stood a peasant with the whip, his arm resting on the neck of one of the animals. Beside him was a maid, also holding a basket, covered with a snow-white napkin, under her arm. A man in a wide brown overcoat, whose thoughtful gait and solemn face made it at once unmistakably evident that he was a sexton, walked with dignity from the wagon to the house, placed himself in front of the Justice, lifted his hat, and recited the following verses:

Before your gate you now may see The Sexton and the Dominie, The Sexton's wife, the house-maid too, Who've come to get what is their due, By custom old from this domain, The hens, the eggs, the cheeses twain; So tell us then without delay If you are all prepared to pay.

While listening to this little recitation the Justice had respectfully removed his hat. Afterwards he approached the wagon, bowed to the clergyman, reverently helped him to alight, and then stood off at one side with him and held a conversation, which the Hunter could not overhear, about various matters. In the meantime the woman with the basket had also stepped down and taken a position beside the Sexton, the peasant and the maid, and behind the two chief persons, as if for a procession.

The Hunter, in order to ascertain the significance of this scene, went downstairs and observed that the entrance-hall was sprinkled with white sand, and the best room, adjacent to it, decorated with green branches. Inside, also dressed up in her Sunday best, sat the daughter; she was spinning as if she meant to turn out an entire skein of yarn that very day. She looked very red and did not glance up from her work. He entered the room and was just about to obtain his information from her, when the procession of strangers, including the Justice, crossed the threshold of the entrance-hall. At the head marched the clergyman, behind him the Sexton, then the peasant, then the maid, then the Sexton's wife, and finally the Justice, each one marching alone. The clergyman approached the daughter, who had not yet glanced up from her spinning-wheel, addressed her with a friendly greeting, and said:

"Quite right, Miss! When the bride-to-be makes her wheel go so industriously beforehand, her sweetheart may hope and expect to have full chests and boxes afterwards. When is the wedding to be?"

"A week from Thursday, your reverence, if it is permissible," replied the bride, turning, if possible, even redder than before. She humbly kissed the clergyman's hand—the latter was still a youngish man—took his hat and cane from him, and handed him, by way of welcome, a refreshing drink. The others, after they had formed a circle around the bride, and had likewise remembered her with a handshake and an expression of good will, also partook of the refreshing beverage; thereupon they left the room and went into the entrance-hall. The clergyman, however, continued to discuss the affairs of the community with the Justice, who, with his hat in his hand all the time, stood before him in reverential posture.

The young Hunter, who, unnoticed by the others, had been watching the scene from a corner of the room, would have liked to greet the clergyman before now, but he felt that it would be rude to break in upon the conversation between the strangers and the inmates of the house, a conversation which, in spite of the rusticity of the scene, had yet an air of diplomatic ceremony. For in the clergyman he recognized, with joyful astonishment, a former academic acquaintance.

The Justice now left the room for a moment, and the Hunter went over to the Pastor and greeted him by name. The clergyman started and passed his hand across his eyes, but he, likewise, at once recognized the other and was no less happy to see him.

"But," he added to the first words of greeting, "this is no place nor time for a talk. Come along with me afterwards when I drive away from the farm—then we can have a chat together. I am a public character here and stand under the constraint of a most imperious ceremonial. We cannot take any notice of each other, and you too, in a passive sort of way, must conform to the ritual. Above all things don't laugh at anything that you see—that would offend the good people extremely. These old established customs, strange as they may seem, always have, nevertheless, their venerable side."

"Have no fear," replied the Hunter. "But I should like to know—"

"Everything afterwards!" whispered the clergyman, glancing toward the door, which the Justice was just then re-entering. He retreated from the Hunter just as from a stranger.

The Justice and his daughter themselves brought in the food and laid it on the table, which had been set in this room. There were chicken soup, a dish of French beans and a long sausage, roast pork and plums, butter, bread, and cheese, and, in addition, a bottle of wine. All this was put on the table at the same time. The peasant too had left the horses and come into the room. When everything was steaming on the table, which had been laid for only two persons, the Justice politely invited the clergyman to seat himself, and the latter, after saying grace, sat down, as did likewise, a short distance away from him, the peasant.

"Do I not eat here too?" inquired the Hunter.

"Nay, God forbid!" answered the Justice, and the bride looked at him from one side in amazement. "Only the Diaconus and the Colonus eat here—you sit at the table with the Sexton outside."

The Hunter went into another room, opposite, after observing to his surprise that the Justice and his daughter themselves attended to the serving of this first and most aristocratic table. In the other room he found the Sexton, his wife, and the maid, all standing around a table which had been laid there, and impatiently awaiting, as it seemed, the arrival of their fourth companion. The same eatables were steaming on this table, except that the butter and cheese were missing and beer took the place of the wine. The Sexton stepped with dignity to the head seat and, keeping his eyes on the dishes, recited aloud the following verses:

The birds that fly, the beasts that crawl, For man's behoof God made them all; Chicken soup, beans, pork, plums and veal, Are gifts divine—Lord bless the meal!

Thereupon the company sat down, with the Sexton at the head of the table. The latter did not for a moment forget his solemn dignity, nor his wife her basket, which she put down close beside her. The Pastor's maid, on the other hand, had unassumingly set hers aside. During the meal, which was piled up on the dishes in veritable mountains, not a word was spoken. The Sexton gravely devoured portions that might be called enormous, while his wife was not a great way behind him. Here again it was the maid who showed herself to be most modest. As for the Hunter, he confined his attention almost entirely to looking on; for the day's ceremonies were not to his liking.

After the meal was over the Sexton, smirking solemnly, said to the two maids who had waited on the table:

"Now, if it please God, we will receive our legitimate dues and the good-will accompanying them."

The maids, who had already cleared off the table, then went out. The Sexton sat down on a chair in the middle of the room, while the two women, his wife and the maid, took seats on either side of him, putting the newly-opened baskets down in front of them. After the expectation which the faces of the three expressed had lasted for several minutes, the two maids re-entered, accompanied by their master, the Justice. The first was holding aloft a roomy basket of wickerwork, in which some hens were anxiously clucking and flapping their wings. She put it down in front of the Sexton, who glanced into it and counted:

"One, two, three, four, five, six—it is all right."

Thereupon the second maid counted out from a large piece of cloth into a basket in front of the Pastor's maid, three score eggs and six round cheeses, not without the Sexton's carefully counting them all over after her. After this was done, the Sexton said:

"So then the Pastor is provided for, and now comes the Sexton."

Thereupon thirteen eggs and a single cheese were put into the basket in front of his wife, who tested the freshness of each egg by shaking and smelling it, and rejected two. After this proceeding the Sexton stood up and said to the Justice:

"How is it, Justice, about the second cheese which the Sexton still has the right to expect from the farm?"

"You yourself know, Sexton, that the right to the second cheese has never been recognized by the Oberhof," replied the Justice. "This alleged second cheese was due from the Baumann estate, which more than a hundred years ago was united under one hand with the Oberhof. Later on, the two were again divided, and the Oberhof is obligated for only one cheese."

The Sexton's ruddy brown face took on the deepest wrinkles that it was capable of producing, and divided itself into several pensive sections of a square, roundish or angular shape. He said:

"Where is the Baumann estate? It was split up and went to pieces in the times of disturbance. Is the Sexton's office to be the loser on that account? It should not be so! Nevertheless, expressly reserving each and every right in the matter of the second cheese due from the Oberhof, and contested now for a hundred years, I hereby receive and accept one cheese. In accordance with which the legitimate dues of the Oberhof to both Pastor and Sexton are paid, and now comes the good-will."

The latter consisted of freshly-baked rolls, six of which were laid in the Pastor's basket and two in the Sexton's. With that the entire ceremony was concluded. The Sexton came closer to the Justice, and recited the following third effusion:

I find the six hens all correct, The cheeses too without defect; The eggs delivered are freshly laid, And all the dues were promptly paid. And so the Lord preserve your farm From famine, fire, and other harm! He is beloved of God and man Who pays his debts as best he can.

After that the Justice made a deep bow as a sign of thanks. The Sexton's wife and the maid carried the baskets out and packed them in the wagon. At the same time the Hunter saw a maid carrying some dishes and plates out of the room in which the clergyman had eaten, into the entrance-hall, where she washed them before the eyes of the latter, who had stepped up to the threshold of the room. After she had finished this washing she approached the clergyman, who drew a small coin out of a piece of paper and gave it to her.

In the meanwhile the Sexton was drinking his coffee with relish, and when a cup was brought for the Hunter too, he sat down with it beside the Sexton.

"I am a stranger here," said the young man, "and do not entirely understand the customs which I have been witnessing today. Will you, sir, be good enough to explain them to me? Is it obligatory for the peasants to supply the Pastor with these products of nature?"

"It is obligatory as far as the hens, eggs and cheeses are concerned, but not the rolls. They represent merely goodwill, but have always been paid without objection," replied the Sexton with great seriousness. "Three peasant communities are affiliated with the diaconate or head pastorate in the city, and part of the Pastor's and Sexton's income is derived from these dues, which are collected every year from the various farms. In order to do this collecting, as has been done every year since time immemorial, we make annually two trips or rounds, namely, this short summer trip, and then a long winter trip, shortly after Advent. On the summer trip the hens, eggs and cheeses come due, one farm paying so much, another so much. The first item, namely, the hens, is payable, however, only pro Diaconatu, the Sexton having to content himself with eggs and cheese only. In the winter, corn, barley, oats and rye fall due; we come then with two carts, because one would not hold all the sacks. Thus twice a year we go the rounds of the three communities."

"And where do you go from here?" asked the Hunter.

"Straight home," answered the Sexton. "This community is the last of the three, and this Oberhof is the last farm in this community where the customary dues are collected."

The Sexton was then called away, for the horses were hitched to the cart, and the clergyman, with cordial handshakes and good wishes, was taking leave of the Justice and his daughter, who were now standing before him with the same air of friendly reverence that they had shown for him during all the other proceedings of the day.

The procession now went rocking off between corn fields and high hedges along another road than the one it had come by. The peasant, with the whip in his hand, went on foot in front of the horses, and the cart rolled heavily along behind him. In addition to the two women, the Sexton now sat in among the baskets with a feather pillow propped against his stomach for protection. The Hunter, who had modestly stood back during the preparations for departure, now, when the wagon had advanced a short distance, hurried after it with hasty steps. He found the Pastor, who had also remained behind his accumulation of property, waiting for him in a pleasant spot under some trees. Here, unrestrained by the ceremonial of the Oberhof, they embraced each other, and the Pastor said, laughing:

"I'll wager this is something you never expected—to discover in your former acquaintance, who used to conduct his young Swedish Count so neatly about on the slippery ground of science and elegant life in the big city, a figure who must remind you of the Reverend Lopez in Fletcher's Spanish Curate. As for the proceedings which you have witnessed today, it was absolutely necessary for me to go through with them in person; my entire relation with the people would be broken if I manifested any squeamishness about participating in the old custom. My predecessor in office, who was not a native of these parts, was ashamed of these regular trips and refused downright to have anything to do with them. What was the result? He got himself into serious difficulties with these rural parishes, which even had an influence on the decadence of school and church affairs. He had finally to petition for his transference, and I immediately made up my mind, when I received my appointment, that I would adapt myself in all things to the customs of the place. In pursuance of this policy I have so far got along very well, and the appearance of dependency which these trips give me, far from damaging my prestige, rather enhances and secures it."

"How could it be otherwise?" cried the Hunter. "I must confess to you that during the entire ceremony, in spite of the comical atmosphere which your Sexton spread over it, I was really touched and the feeling never once left me. Somehow I saw on the one hand, in your acceptance of these most simple and material gifts, and, on the other, in the reverence with which they were bestowed, the most pious and unpretending symbol of the church, which must have its daily bread in order to exist, and of the faithful who supply her earthly needs in the humble conviction that by so doing they will gain something of high and eternal value. Hence on neither the one side nor the other does a sense of servitude arise, but rather on both sides there is a deep feeling of the most perfect mutuality."

"I am glad," said the Pastor, pressing the Hunter's hand, "that you so regard it, since another person would perhaps have made fun of the whole business. For that reason—I can now own up to it—I was at first not at all pleased to have you appear so unexpectedly as a witness of those scenes."

"God forbid that I should make fun of anything that I have seen in this country!" replied the Hunter. "I now rejoice that a mad freak brought me here to these woods and fields, for otherwise I should probably never have learned to know the region; for it has very little reputation abroad, and there is, in fact, nothing here to attract exhausted and surfeited tourists. But the feeling has gripped me here even more strongly than in my own home—this is soil which an unmixed race has trod for more than a thousand years! And the idea of the immortality of the people was wafted toward me in the rustling of these oaks and of this surrounding vegetation in an almost, I might say, tangible form."

A long conversation resulted from this remark, which was carried on alternately by both the Hunter and the Pastor, as they walked slowly along behind the cart.

When they took leave of each other the young Suabian was obliged to make his friend a promise that he would visit him for a few days in the city. After that they separated and went off in opposite directions.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STRANGE FLOWER AND THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL

The sun was still high in the heavens. The Hunter felt no particular inclination to return to the Oberhof so early in the day, so he stepped up to one of the highest hedges to obtain a general view of the region. From there he saw rising, a short distance away, the bushy summits of a group of hills, through which he thought he could probably make his way and get back to his quarters before late in the evening.

His foot trod the fresh, damp green of a meadow bordered by bushes, under which a stream of clear water was flowing. Not far away appeared some small rocks, over which ran a narrow slippery path. He walked across, climbed down between the cliffs, tucked up his sleeves, and put his arm in the water; it sent a pleasant thrill through him and cooled his hot blood. Thus, half kneeling, half sitting in the damp, dark, rock-begirt spot, he glanced aside into the open. There his eyes were fascinated by a glorious sight. Some old tree stumps had rotted in the grass, and their black forms protruded from the surrounding vivid green. One of them was entirely hollowed out, and inside of it the rotted wood had formed a deposit of brown earth. Out of this earth and out of the stump, as from a crater, a most beautiful flower was growing. Above a crown of soft, round leaves rose a long, slender stalk which bore large cups of an indescribably beautiful red. Deep down in the cups of the flower was a spot of soft, gleaming white which ran out to the edge of the petals in tiny light-green veins. It was evidently not a native flower, but an exotic, whose seed some chance—who knows what?—had deposited here in this little garden-bed, prepared by the putrefactive powers of Nature, and which a friendly summer sun had caused to grow and blossom.

The Hunter refreshed his eye in this charming sight. Intoxicated by the magic of Nature, he leaned back and closed his eyes in sweet reveries. When he opened them again the scene had changed.

A beautiful girl in simple attire, her straw hat hung over her arm, was kneeling by the flower, gently embracing its stalk as if it were her sweetheart's neck, and gazing into its red calyx with the sweetest look of joyful surprise. She must have approached quietly while the Hunter was lying back, half asleep. She did not see him, for the cliffs hid him from her sight; and he was careful not to make any motion that might frighten the vision away. But after a while, as she looked up from the flower with a sigh, her sidewise glance fell upon the water, and she caught sight of a man's shadow! The Hunter saw her color pale, saw the flower drop from her hands—otherwise she remained motionless on her knees. He half arose between the cliffs, and four young eyes met! But only for a moment! The girl, with fire in her face, quickly got up, tossed her straw hat on her head, and with three swift steps disappeared into the bushes.

The Hunter now came out from among the cliffs and stretched out his arm toward the bushes. Had the spirit of the flower become alive? He looked at it again—it did not seem as beautiful as it had a few minutes before.

"An amaryllis," he said, coldly. "I recognize it now—I have it in my green-house."

Should he follow the girl? He wanted to—but a mysterious shyness shackled his feet. He grasped his forehead. He had not been dreaming—he was sure of that. "And the occurrence," he cried at last with something like an effort, "is not so extraordinary that it must necessarily have been a dream. A pretty girl, who happened along this way, was enjoying a pretty flower—that is all!"

He wandered about among unknown mountains, valleys and tracts of country, as long as his feet would carry him. Finally it became necessary for him to think of returning.

Late, in the dark, and only through the help of a guide whom he came across by accident, he reached the Oberhof. Here the cows were lowing, and the Justice was sitting at the table in the entrance-hall with his daughter, men and maids, about to begin his moral talks. But it was impossible for the Hunter to enter into them—everything seemed different to him, coarse and inappropriate. He repaired immediately to his room, wondering how he could pass away any more time here without knowing what was going to happen. A letter which he found there from his friend Ernst in the Black Forest added to his discomfort. In this state of mind, which robbed him of part of his night's sleep and even the following morning had not yet left him, he was glad indeed when the Pastor sent a wagonette to bring him to the city.

Even from a distance, towers, high walls and bulwarks made it evident that the city, once a mighty member of the Hanseatic League, had seen its great days of defensive fighting. The deep moat was still extant, although now devoted to trees and vegetables. His vehicle, after it had passed under the dark Gothic gate, moved along somewhat heavily on the rough stone pavement, and finally drew up in front of a comfortable-looking house, on the threshold of which the Pastor was standing ready to receive him. He entered a cheerful and cosy household, which was animated by a sprightly, pretty wife and a couple of lively boys whom she had presented to her husband.

After breakfast they went for a walk through the city. In the course of it the Hunter told his friend about his adventure in the woods.

"To judge by your description," said the latter, "it was the blond Lisbeth whom you saw. The dear child wanders around the country getting money for her old foster-father. She was at my home a few days ago, but would not tarry with us. The girl is a most charming Cinderella, and I only hope that she may find the Prince who will fall in love with her little shoe."



CHAPTER IX

THE HUNTER SHOOTS AND HITS THE MARK

After a sojourn of several days in the city the Hunter returned to the Oberhof, and found the Justice repairing a barn door. The Hunter informed him that he was going to depart soon, and the old man replied:

"I am rather glad of it; the little woman who had the room before you sent word to me that she would be back today or tomorrow; you would have to give way to her and I couldn't make you comfortable anywhere else."

The entire estate was swimming in the red light of evening. A pure summer warmth pervaded the air, which was uncharged with any exhalations. It was quite deserted around the buildings; all the men and maids must have been still busy in the fields. Even in the house he saw nobody when he went to his room. There he picked up and arranged what he had from time to time written down during his stay, packed up his few belongings, and then looked around for his gun. After a short search he discovered it behind a large cabinet where the peasant had concealed it. He loaded it, and in two steps he was out of the house and headed for the "Open Tribunal," bent on shooting the restlessly heaving visions out of his soul. By the time he was traversing the fragrant, golden oak grove he had recovered his high spirits.

When he reached the Freemen's Tribunal up on the hill he felt quite cheerful. The ears of grain, heavy and plentiful, were nodding and rustling, the large red disk of the full moon was rising over the eastern horizon, and the reflection of the sun, which had already sunk in the west, was still lighting up the sky. The atmosphere was so clear that this reflected light shone a yellowish green.

The Hunter felt his youth, his health, his hopes. He took his position behind a large tree on the edge of the forest.

"Today," he said, "I will see whether fate can be bent. I'll fire only when something comes within three paces of the muzzle, and then if I should miss it, there would needs be magic in it."

Behind him was the forest, before him the low ground of the "Freemen's Tribunal," with its large stones and trees, and over opposite the solitary spot was shut in by yellow corn fields. In the tree-tops above him the turtle-doves were cooing now and then a faint note, and through the branches of the trees by the "Freemen's Tribunal" the wild hawk-moths were beginning to whir with their red-green wings. Gradually the ground in the forest also began to show signs of life. A hedgehog crept sleepily through the underbrush; a little weasel dragged his supple body forth from a crevice in the rocks no broader than a quill. Little hares darted with cautious leaps out from the bushes, stopping in front of each to crouch down and lay their ears back, until finally, growing more brave, they mounted the ridge by the cornfield and danced and played together, using their fore paws to strike one another in sport. The Hunter took care not to disturb these little animals. Finally a slender roe stepped out of the forest. Shrewdly thrusting its nose into the wind and glancing around to the right and left out of its big brown eyes, it stalked along on its delicate feet with an easy grace. The gentle, wild, fleet animal now reached a point just opposite the hidden Hunter's gun, and so close to him that he could hardly fail to hit it. He was just about to pull the trigger when the deer took fright, faced about in a different direction, and made a leap straight for the tree behind which the Hunter was standing. His gun cracked, and the animal, unwounded, made off with a series of mighty leaps into the forest. But from amid the corn he heard a loud cry, and a few moments afterwards a woman's form staggered out of the fields on a narrow path which lay in the line of his aim. The Hunter threw down the gun and rushed toward the form; when he saw who it was he nearly collapsed.



It was the beautiful girl of the flower scene in the woods. He had hit her instead of the roe! She was holding one hand over the region between her shoulder and left breast, where the blood was gushing out copiously beneath her kerchief. Her face was pale, and somewhat drawn, though not distorted, by pain. She drew a deep breath three times and then said with a soft, weak voice:

"God be praised! The wound can't be very dangerous, for I can draw breath, even though it hurts me. I will try," she continued, "to reach the Oberhof, whither I was bound on this short-cut when I had to go and meet with this accident. Give me your arm."

He had supported her only a few steps down the hill when she collapsed and said:

"It won't do—the pain is too severe—I might faint on the way. We must wait here in this place until somebody comes along who can fetch a stretcher."

In spite of the pain of her wound she was clutching tightly in her left hand a small package; this she now handed to him and said:

"Keep it for me—it is the money that I have collected for the baron—I might lose it. We must prepare ourselves," she continued, "to remain here for some little time. If it were only possible for you to make a place for me to lie down and to give me something warm, so that the cold won't penetrate to the wound!"

Thus she had presence of mind both for herself and him. He stood speechless, pale and immovable, like a statue. Utter dismay filled his heart and let not a single word escape from his lips.

Her appeal now put new life into him; he hurried to the tree behind which he had hidden his hunting-bag. There he saw, lying on the ground, the unfortunate gun. He seized it furiously and brought it down on a stone with such strength that the stock was shattered to pieces, both barrels bent, and the lock wrenched from the screws. He cursed the day, himself, and his hand. Then, rushing back to the girl, who had sat down on a stone in the "Open Tribunal," he fell at her feet, kissed the hem of her dress, and with passionate tears flowing from his eyes in a torrent, besought her forgiveness. She merely begged him to please arise; he couldn't help doing it, the wound was surely of no significance, and the thing for him to do now was to help.

He now fitted up a seat for her by laying his bag on the stone, bound his handkerchief around her neck, and gently and loosely laid his coat over her shoulders. She sat down on the stone. He took a seat beside her and invited her to rest her head, for relief, against his breast. She did so.

The moon, in its full clarity, had risen high in the heavens, and now shone down with almost daytime brightness on the couple, whom a rude accident had thus brought so close together. In the most intimate proximity the strange man sat by the strange girl; she uttered low moans of pain on his breast, while down his cheeks the tears ran irrepressibly. Round about them the silent solitude of night was slowly gathering.

Finally Fortune so willed it that a late wanderer passed through the cornfields. The Hunter's call reached his ears; he hurried to the spot and was dispatched at once to the Oberhof. Soon afterwards footsteps were heard coming up the hill; the men were bringing a sedan chair with cushions. The Hunter gently lifted the wounded girl into it, and thus, late at night, she reached the sheltering roof of her old friend, who was, to be sure, greatly astonished to see his expected guest arrive in such a condition.

CHAPTER X

THE WEDDING

On a clear morning in August there were so many cooking fires burning at the Oberhof that it seemed as if they might be expecting the entire population of all the surrounding towns to dinner. Over the hearth fire, built up to unusual size with great logs and fagots, there was hanging on a notched iron hook the very largest kettle that the household possessed. Six or seven iron pots stood round these fires with their contents boiling and bubbling. In the space before the house, toward the oak grove, there were crackling, if history reports the truth, nine fires, and an equal number, or at the most one less, in the yard near the lindens. Over all these cooking-places jacks or roasters had been erected, on which frying-pans were resting, or on which kettles of no small size were hanging, although none of them could compare in capacity with the one which was doing duty over the hearth fire.

The maids of the Oberhof were briskly hurrying back and forth with skimming-spoons or forks between the various cooking-places. If the guests were to find the food palatable, there could not be any dawdling over the skimming and turning. For in the large kettle over the hearth eight hens lent strength to the soup, and in the other twenty-three or-four pots, kettles, and pans there were boiling or roasting six hams, three turkeys, and five pigs, besides a corresponding number of hens.

While the maids were exerting themselves, the men too were industriously attending to their part of the work. The one with the black eyes was building an immense, long table with stands, blocks, and boards, in the orchard among the flower-beds, having already completed a similar construction in the entrance-hall. The fat, slow one was decorating with green birch twigs the gates of the house, the walls of the entrance-hall, and the doors of the two rooms in which the Pastor and his Sexton had once eaten. He sighed deeply over this delightful green work, and the heat, too, seemed to oppress him greatly. Nevertheless an easier task had fallen to him than to his fellow-partner, the gruff, red-haired man. For the former had only flexible May twigs to deal with, whereas it fell to the latter to decorate the cattle for the festivity. The red-haired man was, accordingly, gilding with gold tinsel the horns of the cows and bullocks, which were standing on one side of the entrance-hall behind their mangers, or else was tying bright-colored bows and tassels around them. This was, in fact, a provoking task, especially for an irascible man. For many of the cows and an occasional bullock would have absolutely nothing to do with the festival, but shook their heads and butted sideways with their horns, as often as the red-haired fellow came anywhere near them with the tinsel and brush. For a long time he suppressed his natural instinct, and merely grumbled softly once in a while when a horn knocked the brush or the tinsel out of his hand. These grumbles, however, scarcely interrupted the general silence in which all the busily occupied people were attending to their work. But when, finally, the pride of the stable, a large white-spotted cow, with which he had been struggling in vain for more than a quarter of an hour, became positively malicious and tried to give the red-haired fellow a dangerous thrust, he lost all patience. Springing aside, he seized that fence-pole with which he had once restrained himself from striking Peter of the Bandkotten, and which happened by chance to be handy, and gave the obstinate beast such a mighty blow on the groins with the heavy end of it that the cow bellowed with pain, her sides began to quiver, and her nostrils to snort.

The slow, fat fellow dropped the twigs which he had in his hand, the first maid looked up from the kettle, and both cried out simultaneously:

"Heaven help us! What are you doing?" "When a worthless brute like this refuses to listen to reason and will not be decent and let itself be gilded, it ought to have its confounded bones smashed!"

He then wrenched the cow's head around and decorated her even more beautifully than her mates. For the animal, having in her pain become more tractable, now stood perfectly still and permitted the rough artist to do anything he wanted to with her.

While the preparations for the wedding were being carried on below in this energetic manner, the Justice was upstairs in the room where he kept the sword of Charles the Great, putting on his best finery. The chief factor in the festive attire which the peasants of that region wear is the number of vests that they put on under their coats. The richer a peasant is, the more vests he wears on extraordinary occasions. The Justice had nine, and all of them were destined by him to be assembled around his body on this day. He kept them hung up in a row on wooden pegs behind a seed-cloth, which partitioned off one part of the room from the other like a curtain. First the under ones of silver-gray or red woolen damask, adorned with flowers, and then the outside ones of brown, yellow and green cloth. These were all adorned with heavy silver buttons.

Behind this seed-cloth the Justice was dressing. He had neatly combed his white hair, and his yellow, freshly-washed face shone forth under it like a rape-field over which the snow has fallen in May. The expression of natural dignity, which was peculiar to these features, was today greatly intensified; he was the father of the bride, and felt it. His movements were even slower and more measured than on the day when he bargained with the horse-dealer. He examined each vest carefully before he removed it from its peg, and then deliberately put them on, one after the other, without over-hurrying himself in the process of buttoning them up.

When the Justice was ready he slowly descended the stairs. In the entrance-hall he surveyed the preparations—the fires, the kettles, the pots, the green twigs, the ribboned and gilded horns of his cattle. He seemed to be satisfied with everything, for several times he nodded his head approvingly. He walked through the entrance-hall to the yard, then toward the side of the oak grove, looked at the fires which were burning there, and gave similar signs of approval, although always with a certain dignity. When the white sand, with which the entire entrance-hall and the space in front of the house was thickly sprinkled, grated and crunched in a lively manner under his feet, this seemed to afford him a special pleasure.

A maid was asked to put a chair for him in front of the house; he sat down there, opposite the oak grove, and, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hat and cane in his hand, he awaited in sturdy silence the continuation of the proceedings, while the golden sunlight shone brightly down on him.

In the meantime two bridesmaids were adorning the bride in her room. All around her were standing chests and linen bags, gaily painted with flowers, which contained her dowry of cloth, bedding, yarn, linen and flax. Even in the door-way and far out into the hall all the space was occupied. In the midst of all these riches sat the bride in front of a small mirror, very red and serious. The first bridesmaid put on her blue stockings with the red clocks, the second threw over her a skirt of fine black cloth, and on top of this a bodice of the same material and color. Thereupon both occupied themselves with her hair, which was combed back and braided behind into a sort of wheel.

During these preparations the bride never once said a word, while her friends were all the more talkative. They praised her finery, extolled her piled-up treasures, and every now and then a furtive sigh led one to suspect that they would rather have been the adorned than the adorning.

Finally both girls, with solemn mien, came bringing in the bride's crown; for the girls in that region do not wear a wreath on their wedding-day, but a crown of gold and silver tinsel. The merchant who provides their adornment merely rents the crown, and after the wedding-day takes it back. Thus it wanders from one bride's head to another.

The bride lowered her head a little while her friends were putting on the crown, and her face, when she felt the light weight of it on her hair, became, if possible, even redder than before. In her hair, which, strange enough, was black, although she lived among a blond people, the gold and silver tinsel glittered gaily. She straightened herself up, supported by her friends, and the two broad, gold bands which belonged to the crown hung far down her back.

The men were already standing in front of the door ready to carry her dotal belongings down into the entrance-hall. The bridesmaids seized their friend by the hand, and one of them picked up the spinning-wheel, which likewise had a definite function to perform in the coming ceremony. And thus the three girls went slowly down the stairs to the bride's father, while the men seized the chests and bags and started to carry them down into the entrance-hall.

Then the bride, escorted by both bridesmaids, entered the door, holding her head stiff and firm under the quivering gold crown, as if she were afraid of losing the ornament. She offered her hand to her father, and, without looking up, bade him a good morning. The old man, without any show of feeling, replied "Thank you," and assumed his previous posture. The bride sat down at the other side of the door, put her spinning-wheel in front of her and began to spin industriously, an occupation which custom required her to continue until the moment the bridegroom arrived and conducted her to the bridal carriage.

In the distance faint notes of music were heard, which announced the approach of the bridal carriage. But even this sign that the decisive moment was at hand, the moment which separates a child from the parental house and shoves the father into the background so far as his child's dependence is concerned, did not produce any commotion at all among the people, who, like models of old usages, were sitting on either side of the door. The daughter, very red, but with a look of unconcern, spun away unwearyingly; the father looked steadily ahead of him, and neither of them, bride or father, said a word to the other.

The first bridesmaid, in the meanwhile, was out in the orchard gathering a bouquet for the bridegroom. She selected late roses, fire-lilies, orange-yellow starworts—a flower which in that locality they call "The-Longer-the-Prettier" and in other places "The Jesus Flowerlet"—and sage. The bouquet finally grew to such proportions that it could have sufficed for three bridegrooms of high rank—for peasants must always do things on a large scale. But all together it did not smell any too sweet, for the sage emitted a strange odor, and the starworts a positively bad one. On the other hand, neither of them, especially the sage, could be left out, if the bouquet was to possess the traditional completeness. When she had it ready, the girl held it out before her with proud enjoyment, and tied it together with a broad, dark-red ribbon. She then went to take her place beside the bride.

CHAPTER XI

THE HUNTER AND HIS PREY

While the ceremony was thus monopolizing the entire Oberhof, there were, wholly without ceremony, two young people together upstairs in the room which the Hunter had formerly occupied. The young girl was sitting at a little table by the window and hemming a beautiful kerchief which the Hunter had bought for her in the city and given to her for a wedding-day adornment. She pricked her finger more often today than on the evening when she was helping the bride with her linen. For when the eyes do not watch the needle, it is apt to take its own malicious course.

The young man was standing before her and working at something; he was, namely, cutting out a pen for her. For at last the girl had said she would of course have to send news as to where she was, and request permission to remain a few days longer at the Oberhof. He stood on the opposite side of the little table, and in a glass between him and the girl a white lily and a rose, freshly cut, were emitting a sweet perfume. He did not hurry unduly with his work; before he applied the knife he asked the girl several times whether she preferred to write with a soft or a hard point, fine or blunt, and whether he should make the quill short or leave it long. He plied her with numerous other questions of this kind, as thoroughly as if he were a writing-master producing a calligraphic work of art. To these detailed questions the girl, in a low voice, made many indefinite replies; now she wanted the pen cut so, now so, and every once in a while she looked at him, sighing each time she did it. The youth sighed even more often, I do not know whether it was on account of the indefiniteness of her answers, or for some other reason. Once he handed the pen to her, so that she might indicate how long she wanted the slit to be. She did so, and when she handed the pen back to him, he seized something more than the pen—namely, her hand. His own hand grasped it in such a way that the pen fell to the floor and for a moment was lost to their memories, all consciousness on both their parts being directed to their hands.

I will betray a great secret to you. The youth and the girl were the Hunter and the beautiful, blond Lisbeth.

The wounded girl had been carried to her room on that night, and the Justice, very much perturbed—something he seldom was—had come out of his room and sent immediately for the nearest surgeon. The latter, however, lived an hour and a half's ride from the Oberhof; he was, moreover, a sound sleeper, and reluctant to go out at night. Thus, the morning had already dawned when he finally arrived with his meagre outfit of instruments. He removed the cloth from her shoulders, examined the wound, and made a very grave face. Luckily, the young Suabian's charge had merely grazed Lisbeth; only two shot had penetrated her flesh, and these not very deeply. The surgeon extracted them, bandaged the wound, recommended rest and cold water, and went home with the proud feeling that if he had not been summoned so promptly and had not so cheerfully done his duty, even in the night, gangrene would inevitably have resulted from the wound.

Lisbeth, while they were waiting for the doctor, had been very calm; she had scarcely uttered a complaint, although her face, which was deathly pale, betrayed the fact that she was suffering pain. Even the operation, which the surgeon's clumsy hand caused to be more painful than was necessary, she had undergone bravely. She asked for the shot and presented them jokingly to the Hunter. They were "sure shot," she said to him—he should keep them, and they would bring him luck.

The Hunter accepted the "sure shot," wrapped them in a piece of paper, and gently withdrew his beautiful victim's head from his encircling arms to let her sleep. In these arms Lisbeth had rested with her pain, as up on the "Open Tribunal," ever since entering the room in the Oberhof. With sorrowful eyes he had gazed fixedly into her face, and had now and then met a friendly return-glance, which she directed up to him as if to comfort him.

He went out into the open. It was impossible for him to leave the Oberhof now; he had, he said, to await the recovery of the poor wounded girl, for human nature, he added, demanded that much. In the orchard he found the Justice, who, having found out that there was no danger, had gone on about his business as if nothing had happened. He asked the old man to furnish him with quarters for a longer stay. The Justice bethought himself, but knew of no room to accommodate the Hunter. "And even if it is only a corner in the corn-loft!" cried the Hunter, who was awaiting the decision of his old host as if his fate depended on it. After much deliberation it finally occurred to the Justice that there was a corner in the corn-loft, where he stored grain when the harvest turned out too abundant for the usual storing-places. At that time it was empty, and to it the old man now conducted his young guest, adding, however, that he would probably not like it up there. The Hunter went up, and although the bare and depressing room received its small amount of light only through a hole in the roof, and there was nothing but a board and a chest to sit on, nevertheless he was well satisfied. "For," he said, "it is all the same to me, if I can only remain here until I feel certain that I haven't done any lasting damage with my accursed shooting. The weather is fine, and I shan't need to be up here much of the time."

And, as a matter of fact, he was not up there in his nook much of the time, but down with Lisbeth. He begged her forgiveness for his act so often that she grew impatient, and told him, with a frown of annoyance which became her very well, to just stop it. After five days the wound had completely healed, the bandage could be removed, and light reddish spots on her white shoulder were all that remained to show the place of the injury.

She remained at the Oberhof, for the Justice had previously invited her to the wedding. This event was postponed a few days because the dowry would not be ready at the time appointed. The Hunter remained too, although the Justice did not invite him. He invited himself to the wedding, however, by saying to the old man one day that the customs of the country seemed to him so remarkable that he wished to learn what they were on the occasion of a wedding.

Soon there were just two times in the day for the Hunter, an unhappy and a happy one. The unhappy time was when Lisbeth was helping the bride with her linen—and this she did every day. The Hunter then was absolutely at a loss what to do with his time. The happy time, on the other hand, began when Lisbeth rested from her work and took the fresh air. It was then certain that the two would come together, the Hunter and she. And were he ever so far away behind the bushes, it would always seem as if somebody were saying to him, "Lisbeth is now outdoors." Then he would fly to the place where he suspected she was, and behold! his suspicions had not deceived him, for even from a distance he would catch sight of her slender form and pretty face. Then she would always bend over sideways after a flower, as if she were not aware of his approach. But beforehand, to be sure, she had looked in the direction from which he was coming.

And now they would walk together through field and meadow, for he would beg her so earnestly to do it that it seemed almost sinful to her to refuse him so small a request. The further away from the Oberhof they wandered in the waving fields and green meadows, the more free and happy would their spirits grow. When the red, setting sun lighted up everything about them, including their own youthful forms, it seemed to them as if anxiety and pain could never enter into their lives again.

On these walks the Hunter would do everything possible to please Lisbeth that he could guess from her eyes she wanted him to do. If she happened accidentally to look toward a cluster of wild field-flowers that were blooming on a high hedge at some distance from the road, before the wish to have them had even had time to enter her mind, he had swung himself up on the hedge. And in places where the road dropped off somewhat abruptly, or where a stone lay in their way, or where it was necessary for them to cross an insignificant bit of water, he would stretch out his arm to lead and support her, while she would laugh over this unnecessary readiness to help. Nevertheless she would accept his arm, and permit her own to rest in it for a while, even after the road had become level again. On these quiet, pleasant walks the young souls had a great deal to impart to each other. He told her all about the Suabian mountains, the great Neckar, the Alps, the Murg Valley, and the Hohenstaufen Mountain on which the illustrious imperial family, whose deeds he related to her, originated. Then he would speak of the great city where he had studied, and of the many clever people whose acquaintance he had made there. Finally, he told her about his mother, how tenderly he had loved her, and how it was perhaps for that reason that he afterwards came to cherish and revere all women more, because each one of them made him think of his own deceased mother.

Lisbeth, on the other hand, had only the story of her own simple life to tell him. In it there were no big cities, no clever people, and, alas, no mother! And yet he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful. For every menial service which she had performed, she had rendered noble by love. Of the young lady and the Baron she had a thousand touching things to tell, in all the little haunts in and behind the castle garden she had had adventures to relate, and she had read in the books which she had secretly brought down from the garret all sorts of astounding things about strange peoples and countries and remarkable occurrences on land and water—and all this she had retained in her memory.

Thus their days at the Oberhof passed, one after the other. The Justice, to be sure, looked upon it all with different eyes, but was, of course, obliged to let things which he could not prevent go on. But he often shook his head when he saw his young guests walking and talking with each other so much, and would say to himself: "It isn't right for a young nobleman like that!"

CHAPTER XII

THE DISTURBANCE. WHAT HAPPENED IN A VILLAGE CHURCH

Finally the Hunter finished cutting the pen. He pushed a sheet of paper toward her and asked her to try it and see if it would write. She did so, but could not make it work very well; it had teeth, she said. He looked at what she had written; it was her own name, in the clearest and most regular lines. The fine letters delighted him.

Then the door opened and the bridesmaid entered with a dress and a request that Lisbeth be the third bridesmaid.

Outside the music, varied by the ringing of bells, was coming nearer and nearer, and now the bridal carriage, drawn by two strong horses, hove into sight at the farther end of the road leading through the oak grove. The first bridesmaid stood demurely beside the bride, with her large and rather malodorous bouquet; the men stood by the chests and bundles in the entrance-hall, all ready to seize them for the last time; the Justice was looking about anxiously for the second and third bridesmaids, for if the latter were not on hand before the appearance of the bridegroom to take the place which the day assigned to them, the entire ceremony, according to his notion, was done for. But finally, exactly at the right time, the two awaited girls came down the steps and took their stands on either side of the first, just as the carriage turned in toward the open space in front of the house.