Transcriber's Note:Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/germanpioneersta01spie

"You are not my maid-servant, Catherine,"
he said gently. (P. 57.)

THE GERMAN PIONEERS

A TALE OF THE MOHAWK

BY

FREDERICK SPIELHAGEN.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

The REV. LEVI STERNBERG. D. D.

CHICAGO:
Donohue, Henneberry & Co.
1891.

Copyright, 1891
BY
DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO.

THE GERMAN PIONEERS

CHAPTER I

On a certain forenoon in the month of April, 1758, there was unusual activity in the harbor of New York. In spite of the disagreeable weather--which had now already lasted two days, with dense fogs and drizzling rain, and even then, from low, gray clouds, was drenching the multitude--there stood upon the quay dense groups of people looking at a large Dutch three-master, which had already lain a couple of days in the roadstead, and now was swinging at anchor in the troubled water nearer shore.

"The gentlemen would have done better to have remained at home," said a little man, referring to two broad-shouldered farmers, who stood near. "I will eat my tailor's goose and not be called Samuel Squenz if, out of the skin-covered skeletons which have thus far passed here on their way to the state-house to take the oath of allegiance to our king--whom may God bless--they can select a single ordinary farmhand."

"Have you seen them?" asked another, who had just joined the group.

"Have I seen them!" replied Samuel Squenz. "We have all seen them. I tell you, neighbor, had they come out of the grave after lying there four months they could not have more bones and less flesh. Surely four months in the grave and four months on that Hollander amounts to about the same thing."

"The poor devils!" said the other.

"Ah, what poor devils?" called out a man, distinguished from those around him by his larger wig, more careful dress, rotund body, red, flabby cheeks, and German accent. "Poor devils! What brings them here? What are we to do with the starved ragamuffins, of whom one half could not pay full fare? Now according to our wise laws a wage-sale must be openly made, as was yesterday advertised both in the 'Gazette' and in the 'Journal.'"

"They bring us nothing into the country except the dirty rags they have on and ship-fever, from which may God protect us," called out Samuel Squenz. "I kept nose and mouth shut as the vermin crept past us."

"It is a sin," said neighbor Flint.

"It is a shame," snarled neighbor Bill.

"Therefore I have always said," continued the man, with the red, hanging cheeks, "that we should do as they do in Philadelphia, where for the last thirty years they have levied a poll-tax of forty shillings on every imported Dutchman, just as they do on a nigger. But here a man may preach and preach, but it is to deaf ears. I will not stay out in the rain on account of these ragamuffins. Good day, gentlemen."

The big man touched his three-cornered hat, but, instead of leaving the place, went with heavy strides to the edge of the quay and looked at the ship, which had by this time raised its anchor and was being slowly driven on by the tide.

"It is a sin," said neighbor Flint.

"It is a shame," snarled neighbor Bill.

"That is--for Mr. Pitcher to speak so," cried one who now came up and had heard the last words of him who was just leaving.

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Brown?" asked Samuel Squenz, respectfully lifting his cap.

"Isn't it a shame, now," said Mr. Brown, a small, old, lean man, who spoke with much animation, and while speaking gesticulated violently with his lean little arms. "Isn't it a shame for one to speak so contemptuously about his own countrymen? Is not this Mr. Pitcher just as good, or as bad as the poor devils there on the ship? Did not his parents, in 1710, while Robert Hunter was governor, come to New York with the great immigration, from the Palatinate? They were good, respectable people, whom I knew well, who had a hard time of it, and who honestly and honorably worked up to their subsequent better condition. They do not deserve that this, their son, whom I have seen running about the streets barefoot, should so utterly forget them and slander their memory as to change his name from the German, Krug, into the English, Pitcher. Pitcher indeed! The old Krug was, I think, made out of better clay than this young English Pitcher, who reviles these immigrants and thereby creeps under the same cover with the Dutch who sell people for a term of years, and deal in human flesh as you do, neighbor Flint, with beef, and you, neighbor Bill, with cheese and butter."

The old man thrust his bamboo cane angrily into the moist ground.

"It is a sin," said neighbor Flint.

"It is a shame," said neighbor Bill.

"With your permission, neighbors," said Samuel Squenz, "I will not praise Mr. Pitcher, though he gives me work. One must, however, honor his father, though he was a miserable Dutchman. Nor will I have anything to do with those who deal in human flesh, or sell people for a term of years. May the Lord forgive Mr. Pitcher if he meddles with such a business. But I cannot blame those to whom this immigration is an open grief, and who declare it to be injurious to the commonwealth. These vagabonds take the bread from our mouths, and stuff it into their unwashed mouths, while they are too stupid or too lazy to earn a shilling."

"Do you see that man near the edge of the quay close to Mr. Pitcher?" said Mr. Brown.

"The young farmer?"

"The same. How do you like him?"

"He is a noble looking fellow, though I cannot approve of the cut of his coat."

"Now this young man is also German, called Lambert Sternberg. He lives on Canada Creek, and I have just, in my office, counted out one hundred pounds into his hands, and have given him a commission for another hundred pounds if he delivers to my correspondents in Albany this fall by October, on my account, the tar and rosin agreed upon."

"Is it possible," said Samuel Squenz. "Yes, yes, there are exceptions."

"Not at all an exception," earnestly replied Mr. Brown. "Lambert Sternberg's brother is a fur-hunter and has, for six years, been in a mutually advantageous partnership with my neighbor Squirrel. So likewise there live on Canada Creek, on the Mohawk, and on the Schoharie dozens, yes, hundreds of excellent people, who have in their veins as pure German blood as you and I have English blood. By diligent labor they have placed themselves in comfortable circumstances; and it would have gone still better with them had not the Government, instead of aiding and protecting them, thrown obstacles in their way. This time the young man was obliged to take his long journey to New York to maintain his and his neighbors' rights to the pine trees growing on their own ground--a right as clear as the sun--and yet, God only knows what the issue would have been, had I not intervened and showed the Governor that the purchaser of land, first from the Indians, then from the government, should not be forced to buy it again for the third time from the first swindler who crowds himself in and manages to get some show of title."

Mr. Brown spoke with great earnestness. Most of his hearers, whose eyes wandered back and forth between the speaker and the farmer at the edge of the quay, seemed to be convinced. However Samuel Squenz would not keep quiet, but cried out with a grieved voice:

"What do you thus show, Mr. Brown, except that these scamps swallow up the land to which we, and our children, and our children's children, are entitled? And one must not speak of injury done to the commonwealth! I would like to know what else it should be called?"

"A strengthening," cried Mr. Brown; "a strengthening and an establishing of the commonwealth. That would be the right word. Is it not a blessing for us all that outside, on the farthest border, these poor Germans have settled, and, if God permit, will settle still farther, and, by their position, are in constant conflict with the French, and whom we have to thank that you, and I, and all of us here in New York, can peacefully prosecute our business. When last fall Captain Belletre, with his French and Indians, fell upon the valley of the Mohawk, who hindered that he did not reach Albany, and God knows how much further? We did not, for two years ago we allowed Fort Oswego to be taken; and General Abercrombie, who commands at Albany, had done nothing to protect the threatened points until October when Belletre came. I ask again, who hindered? The Germans, who fought as well as they could under the lead of their watchful captain, Nicolas Herkimer, though they lost forty killed and one hundred and two prisoners, not to speak of the $50,000 damage done by the thieving, burning murderers. That is an injury to the commonwealth, Mr. Squenz, of which you may take occasion to think, Mr. Squenz, and therewith I commend you to God."

The choleric old gentleman had spoken in such a passion that, in spite of the rain, he took off, not only his hat, but also his wig, and was now wiping his bald head with his handkerchief as he left the group and shuffled over to the young countryman, who still stood in the same place on the quay looking at the ship. Now, however, as the old man patted him on the shoulder, he turned about with the appearance of one who has just been awakened out of a dream. It could not have been a pleasant dream. On the fine, dark-complexioned face there was a trace of deep grief, and the large, blue, kind, German eyes looked very sad.

"Ah, Mr. Brown," said the young man, "I supposed you had long since gone home."

"While I stood but ten steps behind you and spent my breath in defending you! But so it is with you Germans. To strike home when it comes to the worst--that you can do; but to speak for yourselves--to maintain your rights against the simpletons who look at you over the shoulder and who shrug the shoulder over you--that you leave for others."

"What has happened, Mr. Brown?" said the young man.

"What has happened! The old story. I have again rushed into the fire for you sleepy fellows--I, an old fool. Do you think--but for this morning I have already vexed myself enough on your account, and I can surely reckon on having an attack of the colic this evening. And this weather besides--the devil take the weather, and the Germans too! Come, Mr. Lambert, come."

The old man moved about uneasily.

"I would like to stay a little longer," said Lambert, hanging back.

"You have no time to lose if you mean to go by the Albany boat. It leaves at three o'clock, and you also wanted to get your horse shod."

Lambert turned from the ship, which by this time had come quite near, to his business friend, and from him again to the ship.

"If you will permit me," said Lambert.

"Do as you please," cried the old man. "You may look at your countrymen and spoil your appetite for dinner. Or you may buy a young blockhead who will eat the hair off your head, or a handsome maid who would not behave at home, but is naturally good enough for you--or perhaps rather two--that your brother Conrad may also be provided for. Do as you please, but let me go home. We eat at twelve, and Mrs. Brown likes her guests to be punctual. Good morning."

Mr. Brown held down his hat, which the wind threatened to take off, with his bamboo cane, and hurried away at the moment when a dull sound from Broadway indicated that the immigrants were returning.

CHAPTER II

There entered new life into the wet and surly groups on the quay. Men stood on tiptoe and eagerly looked in the direction of Broadway, where the wretched crowd now appeared. Others pressed forward to the point where the ship was to land. It was now so near that they were already casting over the ropes. Lambert, who still stood on the outer edge, saw himself surrounded by a dense mass, and thus kept in a place he would now have gladly surrendered to anyone whose eyes and heart could better endure the sight of the utmost human wretchedness.

The scene of this misery was the deck of the ship above and below, of which he now had an unobstructed view. Already, from a distance, had the confusion caused by the commingled piles of bales, casks, trunks, and baskets, between which wives and children were wandering about, filled him with sad reflections. But his heart ceased to beat and his chest to heave as, clearer and clearer, and now also very near, the crying and scolding, weeping and lamenting of the unfortunate people struck upon his ear. As his glance wandered from one pitiable object to another, he everywhere saw countenances deathly pale and disfigured by hunger and sickness, out of whose deep, sunken eyes dull despair and frenzied anxiety fearfully glared. As they thus stood in motionless groups it seemed as if they had lost all power and inclination to do anything for themselves. Their heads were stretched forward like timid sheep which the butcher's dog has driven to the door of the slaughter house. Thus they hastened and hurried and crowded between the chests and casks, and greedily gathered up their poor belongings. Elsewhere, in confused quarreling and strife, they snatched bundles from each other, and threatened each other with their fists, until the supercargo intervened and with scolding and pushing and striking, separated them. Lambert could endure the horrible sight no longer, and pressed back the crowd which now surrounded him like a wall. As he involuntarily cast a last glance over the deck it fell upon a form which he had not before noticed, and at once he stopped as though struck by lightning.

Directly before him there leaned against a great pile of bales a young, tall, slender maiden. Her right arm was thrust against the bales, the hand supporting her head. Her other arm hung at her side. Her face, of which he had only a side view, was so thin and pale that the long, dark eyelashes were brought out with singular distinctness. The lustrous black hair was wound around the head in comely braids, and her dress, though poor and threadbare enough, was more tasty than that of the other women, to whom she was evidently greatly superior in refinement. As though a powerful enchantment had seized him, Lambert could not withdraw his gaze from this face. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He had not thought that anything so beautiful could be found. Nearly breathless, without knowing what he was doing--even forgetting where he was--he looked at the stranger as though she were an apparition, until, with sad shaking of the head, she let her supporting arm fall and, passing around the pile of goods against which she had leaned, she disappeared from his sight.

At this moment, back on the Battery, there sounded a great shouting and drumming and fifing. The crowd pressed forward, and was again pushed back. The police who accompanied the immigrants had already had trouble with the mob all the way through the city, and now, having to pass through the compact mass on the quay to the gang-plank, were obliged to use all their authority and to swing their clubs indiscriminately. So it happened that over the living wall before him Lambert saw now and then a pale, grief-stricken countenance, as the poor immigrants passed over the narrow gangway to the deck of the ship. Here those who had just returned on board immediately began to call for their wives and children, some of whom, overcome by fatigue, did not move, while others hastened to their husbands as soon as possible. A dreadful confusion arose, which was increased by the ship's crew rushing into the crowd and making room by pushing and striking indiscriminately. It had reached its highest point when those on the quay, headed by the stout Mr. Pitcher, in a close mass pushed on from behind and blocked up the way to every one who, with his bundles and packs, desired to leave the ship. The men screamed, the women cried, the children whimpered, the captain and sailors cursed and swore. The police swung their clubs. It was a dreadful chaos, in which Lambert's anxious glances were ever peering about for the poor girl who was looking on the tumult which was roaring around her, so lonely, so forsaken, so still and patient. As he saw her form again emerge, now on the forward part of the deck, he held back no longer. Without further thought, with a mighty spring from the edge of the quay, he swung himself aboard of the ship and hastened to the point where he had last seen her. He knew not why he did this. He had no conception of what he should say to the maiden when he should reach her. It seemed as though he was drawn by unseen hands, which it was impossible for him to resist, and to whose guidance he willingly committed himself.

After he had approached her, lost sight of her, feared at last that he should not again find her, he suddenly came near her. She had kneeled on the deck before a couple of children--a boy and a girl from six to eight years old--whose threadbare garments she was fixing, and was speaking; to a woman who stood near with quite a small child in her arms, and who was constantly scolding, till the husband came up and dragged the children away, scolding and cursing. His wife followed him without a word or look of thanks to her who was left behind. She slowly arose and looked sadly at those who were leaving. She followed them, tied a small piece of cloth which she had worn, about the neck of the smallest child, and then slowly returned to the place where the family had left her. Her countenance was more sad than before. Tears rolled over her pale cheeks.

"Can I be of any help to you, madam?" asked Lambert.

The girl raised her dark eyelashes, and looked searchingly with her large brown eyes at his kind, honorable face.

"Nobody can help me," said she.

"Have you no parents, no relatives, no friends?" asked Lambert.

"I have nobody--nobody," replied the maiden, and turned herself partly away that she might hide the tears which now burst forth in streams from her eyes.

Lambert's eyes also became moist. The trouble of the poor girl pressed heavily on his heart.

"Can you not leave the ship?" he further inquired.

The unhappy one, without answering, only wept the more.

"Do not consider me too pressing, kind maiden, I have seen you standing so forsaken that my pity has been awakened. And now you yourself say that you are alone, that you have nobody to help you, and that nobody can help you. Perhaps I can do so if you will confide in me. I will surely do all that is in my power."

While the young man thus spoke the girl wept more and more gently. She now again turned her pale face to him and said:

"I thank you, kind man. I thank you with my whole heart, and may God bless you for the compassion you have felt for a poor, helpless creature. But help--that indeed you cannot. Who could help me? By whose help could I leave this ship?"

Her countenance took on an unusual expression. She looked, with staring eyes, over the bulwarks into the water which rose and fell at the ship's bow. "For me there is but one means of escape," she murmured.

At this moment a man, cursing, pressed through the crowd, which made room for him in all directions. He was an under-sized, broad-shouldered fellow with a red wig, a brutal countenance and a pair of green eyes which glittered maliciously.

He put on quite an air, dressed in his ship uniform, and drew after him a sturdy farmer, who seemed to follow him reluctantly and who looked at the maiden with dull, staring eyes, while he in the uniform approached, and with legs spread apart, called out in poor German:

"So, Miss Catherine Weise, I have soon picked up a man. He is the richest farmer within ten miles, as he says himself, and needs a capable maid-servant on his farm. He has already bid forty on my bare recommendation. That indeed is scarcely the half, but perhaps he will now give the whole amount, after he has himself seen you, and has convinced himself that I did not lie to him. What do you think, Mr. Triller? Isn't she a stunner? Are you now willing to fork over, ha?"

He struck the farmer on the shoulder and broke out in uproarious laughter.

"Let it be forty-five, captain," said the farmer, "and I'll take her as she stands."

"Not a shilling under ninety," cried the captain, "not a shilling, even if I should have to keep her myself. No, she would gladly stay with me. Isn't it true. Miss Catherine? She is a stunner."

"Don't touch her; if you don't want your skull cracked!" cried Lambert.

The captain took a step back and stared at the young farmer, whom he had not before noticed, and who now stood before him with glowing eyes and balled fists.

"Oho!" he exclaimed, "who are you? Do you know that I am Captain Van Broom? Do you know that I shall at once throw you into the water? What is your name? What do you want?"

He took a step back, having said the last words in a far less confident tone. He did not think it prudent to have anything further to do with a man of so resolute an appearance and so evidently superior to himself in bodily strength.

"My name is Lambert Sternberg, from Canada Creek," said the young man. "There live in the city of New York respectable citizens who know me well; and what I want I will soon tell you, if you will kindly step aside with me for a few moments."

"As you wish; as you wish," snarled the captain.

"In a moment," said Lambert. He approached the maiden, who stood trembling violently, and said to her in a low tone, "Catherine Weise, will you accept me as your protector, and permit me to do for you what, under such circumstances, an honorable man should do for a helpless maiden?"

A deep blush spread over Catherine's face She fixed her dark eyes upon her questioner with a peculiar expression that made his inmost heart flutter. She tried to answer, but there came no sound from her trembling lips.

"Wait here for me," said the young man.

He turned to the captain and went with him to a retired part of the deck. The robust farmer had turned aside and felt no further interest in the deal, after he saw that another purchaser for the merchandise was found, and which, all things considered, was entirely too dear for him.

"Now, Mr. Broom," said Lambert, as he overtook him, "I am at your service."

"I'll be----if I know what you want," said the captain.

"Simply this: To take that girl there, whom you call Catherine Weise, with me from the ship, and that at once."

"Oho!" said the captain, "you are in a hurry. Has she told you how much she owes us?"

"No," said Lambert, "but I have already heard the amount from you."

"Ninety pounds! sir, ninety pounds! That isn't a small matter," cried the captain.

"I suppose you will be able to show that the maiden owes you so much. You will then find me ready."

The captain cast a grim side-glance at the young man like a hyena driven from his prey by a leopard. He would have liked to have the beautiful booty for himself, but was far too shrewd a business man not to avail himself of such a chance. Besides, the Messrs. Van Sluiten and Co., in Rotterdam, and Mr. Pitcher, who was probably now in the ship's office engaged with the book-keeper, had also a word to say. So he spoke in what was for him an unusually courteous tone, instead of the coarse one he had just used:

"If I can show it?--yes, sir. For what do you take Captain Van Broom? With us about everything is booked twice, sir, in farthings and pence. Are you surprised that the amount is so large? I will make it clear. The girl is the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Weise, who died eight days ago, and was buried with all honor at sea. He was a preacher in the region from which most of my passengers come. On the way, I must say it of him, he put himself to a good deal of trouble for his filthy people and did for them more than his strength would bear, while they in Southampton suffered with hunger and cold; and now on the voyage provisions with us became somewhat scarce, and the water--well, one has a heart in his breast, and I yielded to the preacher when he came to borrow for his people. So it has happened that his account has run up a little higher than is usual. At the best not much was to be got from the old man, though there still remained the girl, for whom doubtless a purchaser could be found. So I have taken the risk, and have by degrees given them credit for a hundred pounds."

"You before said ninety."

"A hundred pounds, by----!" shrieked the captain.

"Come with me into the office. There I will show you in black and white. You, there, supercargo, see to it that the thieving vagabonds do not slip from aboard. And you, Mr. Jones, do not leave the gangplank; and keep with you Jean and Jacob, and knock any one down who tries to leave the ship without a pass. Should any one ask for me, he must wait a moment. I have to speak with this gentleman. Will you follow me, Mr. Sternberg?"

The captain opened the door of a low and spacious cabin which was built on the deck. A dark-complexioned man, with immense brass rings in his ears, sat at a table covered with thick books and papers, diligently writing. Near him stood Mr. Pitcher, with his red, bloated, flabby cheeks, and on his wig-covered head his three-cornered hat, looking over his shoulder.

"Ah!" said the captain, "here you are, too, Mr. Pitcher. That fits charmingly. Now we can make the matter clear at once. This is Mr. Charles Pitcher, our general agent for New York. This--"

"I think I already have the honor," said Mr. Pitcher, lifting his hat. "Are not you Mr. Sternberg from Canada Creek, whom I met two years ago in Albany? Have you transacted your business with Mr. Brown? I lately saw you with him on Broadway. Well, other people want to live too. Excuse me, Mr. Sternberg; excuse me. Take a seat. What brings you to us at this time, Mr. Sternberg?"

"It is on account of Catherine Weise," said the captain, in whose eyes the simple countryman, with whom the rich Mr. Pitcher desired to have dealings, had assumed a quite different appearance. "I told you about her yesterday, Mr. Pitcher."

Between Mr. Pitcher and the captain there now took place a short but earnest conversation, of which Lambert understood nothing, as it was carried on in Dutch. They ought to have let the girl go free, but the hateful man at the desk opened a large book and said: "Catherine Weise, folio 470 to 475, beginning September sixth of last year, in Rotterdam, brought until to day, April fifteenth, 1758, port of New York, amounting to £89, 10s.--"

"Ninety-nine pounds," corrected Captain Van Broom.

"Ninety-nine pounds," repeated the man with the ear-rings. "The gentleman will require a conveyance from us to which the proper signatures are attached. For this we charge one pound. Here is the form. Please give me the specifications as I write."

The dark-complexioned man took a sheet of parchment and read, in a leaden, business-like voice:

"In nomine dei: Between Lambert Sternberg, of Canada Creek, and Joanna Catherine Weise, of Zellerfeld, in the electorate of Hanover, aged twenty years, single, the following service contract--shall we say six years, Mr. Sternberg." It is the usual period--for six successive years from this date, under the following conditions mutually agreed upon:

"Pro primo: Joanna Catherine Weise, born, etc.; agrees of her own free will, and after due consideration, to bind herself to Mr. Lambert Sternberg to go with him, or under his direction, to West Canada Creek, in the province of New York, and there, from the day on which she shall have arrived in the before-named district, for six successive years to give him true and faithful required maid-service, under no pretense to relax it, much less, without the consent of Lambert Sternberg, to forsake his service.

"To this, pro secundo, Lambert Sternberg promises--"

"It is enough," said Lambert.

"How?" said he with the ear-rings.

"It is enough," said Lambert. "I wish first to talk over the conditions with the maiden."

"My dear sir, consider the circumstances," called out Mr. Pitcher, in a friendly, helpful tone. "When a man pays £99 he can dictate the conditions."

"That may be," replied Lambert. "However, it is my privilege to deal in my own way."

"As you wish--altogether as you wish," said Mr. Pitcher. "We force nobody. You also wish--"

"Simply a receipt in full for Catherine Weise."

"As you please," said Mr. Pitcher.

While he with the ear-rings wrote out the receipt, and Lambert counted out the money on the table--it was the same that he had received an hour before from Mr. Brown--Mr. Pitcher and the captain grimaced sneeringly behind the back of the simpleton who was so easily limed, and never once looked at the famous account he was satisfying.

"So," said Mr. Pitcher, "this is finished. Now we will--"

"Drink to your happy journey," said the captain, as he reached for a rum-flask which stood near on the rack.

"And to the et cetera, et cetera," cried Mr. Pitcher.

"Good morning, Messrs.," said Lambert, gathering up the receipt, the half-finished contract and Catherine's passage-ticket, and hurrying out of the cabin as though the deck under him was afire. Brutal laughter rung behind him. He stood still a moment. His cheeks glowed. His heart beat furiously against his ribs. Every convulsed fiber of his body urged him to turn back and take vengeance on the mean scoundrels for their laughter. But he thought of the poor girl--how much more she had endured, and that he could do nothing better for her than to release her from such a hell, as soon as possible.

The deck had now been somewhat cleared. The more fortunate ones, who needed not to fear the book in the hands of the man with the ear-rings, had already left the ship. Those who were obliged to stay sat and stood around in groups. Stupid indifference or uncertainty characterized their wan appearance. Curious gazers moved about among them, some of whom had come desirous of making contracts similar to the one which lay crushed in Lambert's coat-pocket. The heavy farmer, who had before made a bid on Catherine, was now speaking with another girl, who had adorned her rags with a couple of red ties, and laughed heartily at the broken German, and at the jokes of the man. They seemed to be already agreed on a bargain.

Lambert hastened as fast as he could to the farther part of the deck, where he had already seen Catherine in the same place where he had left her. But as he came near her he stopped. It seemed to him that nothing had yet been accomplished--that all yet remained to be done. She now turned and saw him. A melancholy smile spread over her countenance.

"Is it not true? Nobody can help me," said she.

"Here is your receipt and your ticket," said Lambert.

His strong, brown hands shook as he gave her the papers, and her thin white hands trembled as she took them. A burning red spread over her countenance.

"Have you done this for me?" said she.

Lambert did not reply, and was greatly agitated as she immediately bowed down, caught his hands and pressed them against her weeping face and lips.

"Kind maiden--kind maiden! what are you doing?" stammered Lambert. "Don't weep. I was glad to do it. I am fortunate to have been able to render you this service. Were it possible I would do the same for all the other unfortunates here. But now let us away. I have but a few hours left. I must begin my homeward journey. I would be glad first to know that you are in safety. Do you know anyone in the city, or in its vicinity to whom I can take you?"

Catherine shook her head.

"Have you no friends among the immigrants who perhaps expect you to accompany them on their farther journey?"

"I have nobody--nobody!" said the girl. "You see everyone thinks only of himself, and alas! everybody has enough of his own to look after."

Lambert stood helpless. He thought for a moment about his old business friend, Mr. Brown. But, alas! Mrs. Brown was not a kind woman. To her, her husband's predilection for the Germans seemed very ridiculous. It did not very well please her to welcome strangers. He knew no other house in the city, except the inn where he had left his horse, and which in other respects was not desirable, especially as to the company which gathered there. He looked at Catherine as though advice must come from her, but her eyes had an anxious and strained expression.

"Do you mean to give me over to other people?" said she.

"What do you mean?" asked Lambert.

"Kind sir, you have already done so much for me, and are reluctant now to tell me that you can do no more for me. I will need a long, long time with my service to pay the heavy debt. I know it well. But I would cheerfully serve you and your parents as long as I live, and even give my life for you. Now you wish to take me to others. Speak freely. I will gladly bind myself for as many years as they desire and make good your recommendation." She smiled sadly and picked up a small bundle that lay near her. "I am ready," said she.

"Catherine!" said Lambert.

She looked inquiringly at him.

"Catherine!" said he again. His chest heaved and fell as though he was summoning up all his strength to speak calmly. "I live far from here, full twenty days' travel, on the utmost border, the farthest settler, in an impoverished region, open to the inroad of our enemies, and which last year suffered from them a dreadful visitation. But if you will go with me--"

A joyful perplexity showed itself in Catherine's wan face.

"How can you ask?" said she.

"Well may I ask," replied Lambert, "and well must I ask. It remains with you. Your evidence of indebtedness is in your own hands and I will never again take it in mine. You are free to come and to go. And so, Catherine Weise, I ask you once more, will you as a free maiden go with me to my home, if I promise you on the honor of a man that I will care for you, help and protect you as a brother should his sister?"

"I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine.

Breathing deeply, she laid her hand in his offered right hand.

Then they hastened over the deck. Catherine nodded tearfully to one and another. She could not speak. Her heart was too full for speech. No one returned her silent farewell, except with dumb and hopeless looks which cut her to the heart. On the long and terrible journey from her home until now, according to her strength and beyond her strength, she had tried to mitigate the boundless wretchedness around her. She could do no more than leave the hapless creatures to their fate. Alas! what a fate awaited those who were here cast on a strange shore like the scattered fragments of a wreck that has been the dreadful sport of the waves. Tears of pity dimmed her eyes. Her senses forsook her. When, holding her bundle of clothing in her hand, she felt her feet standing on solid ground, she knew not how she had got off the ship.

Catherine said nothing, but in her inmost heart she cried out again and again: "God be praised!"

CHAPTER III

The setting sun, which hung over the forest sea of Canada Creek, poured its purple beams over the travelers. They had just emerged from the woods through which they had been going the whole day by solitary, narrow Indian trails. At their feet lay the valley, filled with roseate evening mist, following the windings of the creek.

Lambert stopped the strong-limbed horse which he was leading by the bridle as they were ascending the valley, and said to his companion:

"This is Canada Creek, and that is our house."

"Where?" asked Catherine.

Leaning over the saddle and protecting her eyes from the sun with her hand she eagerly looked in the direction which the young man had indicated.

"There," said he, "toward the north, where the creek appears. Do you see it?"

"Now I do," said Catherine.

At this moment the horse, with expanded nostrils, snorted, and suddenly leapt sideways. The unprepared rider lost her balance and would have fallen off had not her companion, by a quick spring, caught her in his arms.

"It is nothing," said he, as she slid down to the ground. "Old Hans acts as if he had never before seen a snake. Are you not ashamed of yourself, old fellow? So--keep quiet, so!" He patted the frightened horse on his short, thick neck, stripped off the bridle and tied him to a sapling.

"You must have been terribly frightened," said he. His voice and hands shook while he buckled on the pillion which had become displaced.

"Oh, no," said Catherine.

She had seated herself on the root of a tree, and looked over the valley where now, over the luxuriant meadow which followed the course of the stream, a fog began to rise. Yonder the sun was just dipping into the emerald, forest sea, and the golden flames on the trunks, boughs and tops of the great trees were gradually fading away.

From above, the cloudless, greenish-blue evening sky looked down, while a flock of wild swans was flying northward up the valley. From time to time they uttered their peculiar, melancholy cry, melodiously softened by the distance. A deep, quiet stillness brooded over the primitive forest.

The young man stood leaning against the shoulder of the horse. There rested on his brown face a deep, sad anxiety. Often a shadow of restlessness and fear passed over it, widely differing from the usual expression of the smooth, manly features, and obscuring the light that commonly danced in the large blue eyes. He looked now at the swans, which shone as silver stars in the distant, rosy horizon--now at the maiden who sat there, partly turned away from him. At length, drawing a deep breath a couple of times, he approached her.

"Catherine," said he.

She raised her handsome face. Her large brown eyes were filled with tears.

"Are you sorry that you have come with me?" said the young man.

Catherine shook her head.

"No," said she; "how unthankful I should then be."

"And yet, you are weeping."

"I am not weeping," said Catherine, as she drew her hands across her eyes and tried to smile. "I was just thinking how happy my father would have been, had he, at the end of his wanderings, found this still place. Ah! just so had he wished and dreamed. Still it could not be so. How your parents will rejoice to see you again."

She was about to rise. Lambert touched her shoulder.

"Stay yet a moment, Catherine, I have--I must ask you something."

The anxiety that had already before showed itself in his face become still greater. His brows were contracted. His eyes had a stern, severe look.

Catherine looked up at him with astonishment.

"Had my parents meanwhile died and you and I, Catherine, must dwell alone in yonder house--"

"You must not speak so, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine. "It is our duty to trust the Lord. They are doubtless alive and well--they and your brother. Why do we lose time? The evening is passing and I am fully rested."

Lambert wished to make a reply, but the words refused to pass his lips. He stared before him as if in uncertainty, and at length turned to the horse, and with a degree of violence thrust the bit between his teeth. Then he threw the rifle, which stood leaning against the trunk of a tree, on his shoulder and, leading his horse by the bridle, began to descend the rocky declivity. Silently Catherine followed, carefully looking where she could with confidence set her foot, casting many a glance at those going before. The path was very steep and the horse often slid. Lambert needed all his strength and carefulness, and it was manifest that he did not once look back, nor did he ask Catherine how she was getting along. Meanwhile Catherine's heart palpitated. It seemed as though the restlessness, the anxiety about his home that spoke in Lambert's words and looks, had also seized her. "Were they indeed dead--were they all dead--and were we two, he and I, to dwell in yonder house!"

They had reached the valley. Here, along the creek, which flowed in many windings between the meadow banks, there was an easier though narrower path. The horse thrust forward his ears, neighed and stepped along quicker. Lambert had to hold him by the bridle. Catherine walked a little to one side. It did not tire the slim, vigorous girl to come along. It was not the exertion that caused her to breathe with difficulty. The silence which Lambert had not broken for a long time pressed upon her more and more. She was not accustomed to it. On the other hand--this she now for the first time thought of--he had toyed with her during the journey of weeks, he had always talked with her in a way so kind and good. Now, however, in view of his nearer responsibilities he had become silent. He did not speak of those belonging to him. Indeed she would not have known that his parents were living had he not, when she asked him whether he thought that his mother would be satisfied with her, replied that she should give herself no uneasiness on that account. Had he not even now expressed a fear that he should not find his parents alive?

"The kind man," said she to herself, "did not wish to make the heart of the poor orphan heavy by telling me about his parents, and now he cannot wait for the time of meeting them."

"Catherine," said he at that moment.

"Lambert," replied she, coming to his side, glad that he had at last broken silence. As he said no more to her as she waited, she added, "You wished to say something?"

"We shall not live there alone," indicating the block-house with his eyes, standing but a few steps from them.

"No, surely not," she replied.

He gave her an unusual look.

"Do not be so anxious, kind Lambert, we are in God's care."

"No, certainly not," replied he.

He had not observed what she had last said, and only recalled her former words. But it affected her painfully when, through misapprehension, she had heard denied that which she believed, with all her heart, as her old father had believed in all need and trouble. "We are in God's care!" That was the text of his last sermon which, already himself dying, he had delivered between decks to his unhappy fellow sufferers. That was his last word as, a few hours later, he breathed out, in their arms, his pure spirit. Did not her pious childhood-faith approve itself to her in a wonderful manner? When all human help seemed impossible, did not a kind man, God-sent, come, and with a strong hand lead her out of the labyrinth, and carefully conduct her over hills and mountains, creeks and rivers, through endless forests and immeasurable prairies? Never, never, by the side of the good and strong one, had there come to her a feeling of anxiety or fear. Now, as she was nearing the end of her pilgrimage, should doubt find sly entrance? "I will protect and help you as a brother does his sister!" Had he promised too much? Why did he walk so self-absorbed, so still and dumb at her side, now that he was so near his own hearth and that of his parents? Did he, perhaps, fear that he would not be kindly received on account of the stranger he was bringing home? Why was the house there before them so still? No barking of dogs. No sign of those who at the next moment might be expected to rush into the arms of the home-comer. The solitary house on the little hillock, gently descending from it on all sides, and standing near the creek which, like a snake through the grass, was quietly winding among the rushes, was perfectly silent. Silent and still were the dark woods which here and there overlooked the valley from the heights along the shore.

As she now reached the house Catherine felt as though her heart would leap forth as she observed that the lower story, built of immense logs, had no windows but narrow slits like the portholes in the walls of a fortress, and that the upper story was surrounded by a low, massive breastwork, and that the shingle roof was quite high. Lambert tied the horse to a heavy ring which was near the door, cast searching glances about the house and surroundings, murmured something that she did not understand, and finally pushed slowly against the heavy door which opened inward.

He disappeared in the house, came out after a few moments and said: "There is nobody here. We are entirely alone. Will you go with me?"

They were the very same words that he had addressed to her on the deck of the emigrant ship, and she again answered him as then:

"I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg." She grasped the hand which he had extended to her and followed him into the forsaken house.

CHAPTER IV

While Lambert had been engaged within there came through the door a bright light, which Catherine now saw was produced by a large pine fagot burning in a corner of the room near a great stone-hearth. The room was half kitchen and store-room, and half living-room--such as the young woman had become acquainted with in many a farm-house where she had rested during her journey. It was fitted up with various utensils hanging on the walls and ceiling, standing in corners and lying on the floor. Near the hearth there were a couple of rough pine chairs, and, against the wall, a large four-cornered table, serving both for a dressing-table and for meals. There still stood on it a couple of earthen dishes on which were the remains of a meal to which a bear's ham, which had not again been hung upon its hook, contributed the principal part. The entire arrangement was planned on the basis of the simplest necessity. There was no trace of an endeavor after grace and beauty, or the merely agreeable. This observation, that the young maiden made with her first glance about the room, fell upon her heart even more heavily than the empty house. The house would fill up when the absent ones returned, but would she be happy in the company of those who lived here, who called it their home?

"I must look after my horse," said Lambert, "and after the rest of the things. You may meanwhile prepare the evening meal--you will probably find something. We will after that consider your sleeping apartment. It looks very bad here, but Conrad knows nothing about order. However, you can have a chamber upstairs. I will sleep below. I shall not go far, and will soon be back. Do not be afraid."

He said all this forcibly, in snatches, while prying into the corners, so that she scarcely understood him. Then he quickly left the house, and she heard him outside untie the horse and go away with it.

"Do not be afraid! Should I be so it would not be strange. How wonderful it all is! But he has been so heavenly kind to me, a poor girl; and surely his intentions are as honorable and true as ever. Where can they be? They must certainly be at some neighbor's." She had seen at a distance from the creek a couple of roofs. "Does he still expect them back? Now I will do what becomes a good maid who expects her master. What shall I begin with? Yes, that is it. So, it will soon begin to look more cheerful."

She turned to the hearth and in a few minutes had made a bright fire with the dry, prepared pine wood that lay near. Then she took from the hook the kettle that hung by a chain against the wall and filled it half full of water, which she drew from a pump that stood directly beside the hearth. She sought and soon found whatever else was needed for the preparation of the evening meal. She was uncertain of the number for whom she was to provide. She finally concluded that six would be the correct number: Lambert's parents, his brother Conrad, of whom he had spoken a couple of times, Lambert himself, and perhaps there might be another member of the family, or they might bring a guest with them. When she had finished this work she began to put the room in order, but only what would come right with but little labor. "For," said she, "I have no right to do it, and they might be displeased with me."

She had thus quietly labored for a quarter of an hour, and as there was for the moment nothing more to do and the water in the kettle was boiling, she went to the hearth and looked at the flaming fire, thinking that it must at least be time for Lambert to return. She heard a noise behind her. She turned half around and was greatly frightened when she saw, but a few steps from her, instead of Lambert, a stranger staring at her without moving, with a look of such wonder, as though he did not believe his own eyes. The light of the pine sticks burning with a bright flame fell full upon him. It was fortunate for Catherine that, the same moment, she saw that the giant-like man, clothed in a peculiar half-farmer, half-Indian garb, was quite young, and that his sunburned face was handsome, and that his great, wondering eyes had a merry look.

And now the young giant leaned his rifle, which he had allowed to slip to the floor, against the table, gave his strong hands a ringing slap, broke out in very loud laughter, threw himself into a chair which cracked in spite of its strong construction, sprang up again and approached the maiden, who drew back somewhat, again began to laugh, though not so loud, then was silent, shook his short, brown locks and said:

"Lambert has done this well; but where is the other one?"

Catherine did not answer. She did not know what to think of the words of the young man though they affected her disagreeably, and her heart began to beat powerfully.

The young giant looked about the room as though searching whether any one were hidden there. He then again directed his glances toward Catherine, but with a different expression in the large eyes which now shone with a deeper light. He said through his white teeth:

"You are handsome, girl. I have never before seen anything so beautiful. What is your name?"

"Catherine," said the young maiden, who felt that she must say something. "Catherine Weise. You are Conrad, Lambert's brother. I see it by the resemblance. Your brother Lambert has been very kind to me--very kind. We have just arrived. He has gone to put the horse in the stable. I think he will soon be here. You should have met him. Will the others also come soon?"

"Who should come?" asked Conrad.

"Your parents," said Catherine. She said it very faintly, fear, increasing every moment, almost strangling her.

Conrad showed his white teeth. "Our parents!" cried he, "our parents! They are long since dead. You must be satisfied with us two."

"I will look for Lambert," said Catherine, and tried to pass Conrad to the door. Conrad stepped in her way.

"So," said he smiling provokingly, "then Lambert has brought you along for himself, the cunning fellow--and I must look further. Now, as for myself, I am the younger man and can wait a little; but one kiss, beautiful sister-in-law, that you must give me--that is the least."

He stretched out his powerful hands and with giant strength insolently drew the resisting girl to him and kissed her glowing cheeks.

At this moment the water, which for a long time had simmered, noisily, sissing and whizzing, poured over the edge of the kettle in a large swell into the fire which it almost extinguished. A thick, gray vapor, through which the light of the fire looked red, rose and filled the room. Catherine tore herself loose, or was torn loose, she could not tell which; but there were now two persons there struggling together, and the other might well be Lambert. She also thought she had heard Lambert call her name, and so again, as outside the evening wind fanned her cheeks glowing with anger and shame.

Within, the vapor had disappeared. Conrad, having disengaged himself with a powerful effort from his assailant, fell laughing on his neck.

"Lambert, dear, best Lambert!"

"Let me go!" said Lambert, freeing himself from the embrace. "Let me go. Catherine!"

He looked with wandering, anxious eyes about the poorly lighted room.

"She has gone out," said Conrad. "I will bring her again for you."

"No, no, I will, I must," called Lambert, already at the door. "At least take me along--I beg you, Conrad, let me. I will afterwards explain everything to you. Catherine! For the mercy of God! She may have fallen into the creek!"

"Stupid stuff!" said Conrad, who, less excited than his brother, had cast his eyes, sharp as those of a falcon, in every direction. "There she sits, there, do you see?"

"I will go to her alone."

"You may, so far as I am concerned. And Lambert, listen, have you not also brought me a wife?"

But Lambert was already hastening with beating heart to the place where he saw Catherine sit, or lie, he could not tell which, on account of the distance and the evening twilight which now prevailed.

Catherine had run straight forward from the hill on which the house stood until she saw the creek at her feet. She now ran along its edge, scarcely knowing what she wished to do, or whither to go, driven by the painful feeling that the man whom she had trusted as she did her God, had deceived her. She could not make it clear to herself. Everything had come so quickly--had passed like a shadow in the smoke and mist from the fire on the hearth. What she had conceived to be a family, consisted of two brothers fighting with each other--fighting on her account. And this was the end of her long pilgrimage, which she had begun in such a hopeful spirit--with a constantly increasing confidence--yes, at last with wonderful joyfulness. This the end! "O, my God, my God!" groaned the young girl, stopping and looking anxiously into the wilderness which in fearful silence surrounded her, the night with its gathering darkness settling down upon her. "O, my God, my God!"

A bridge, consisting of an immense tree trunk, led across the creek at the place where she now was. She had already set one foot on the dangerous crossing when it suddenly became dark before her eyes. Involuntarily she turned and sank back on her knees, laying her head against the trunk of the tree. Her senses forsook her.

Then, as if from a great distance, she heard her name called, "Catherine!" Again, but now quite near, "Catherine!" She opened her eyes. Near her in the grass kneeled Lambert. He had seized her powerless hands. His long, smooth, brown hair fluttered confusedly in the evening wind about his pale, anxious face.

"Catherine," he said again, "can you forgive me?" She looked at him. She wished to say: "Why have you done this to me?" But her heart was too full. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. Others followed them unrestrained. She wished to withdraw her hands from those of Lambert. He, however, in his desperation, held her fast, and in a despairing voice, cried: "For God's sake, Catherine, listen to me. I meant it well. I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I could not. I thought you would not so willingly go with me if you knew the actual state of things. I endured a great fear, as you may have perceived, when we passed through Albany and Schenectady and the valley of the Mohawk, where they all know me. I always went first into the houses to beg the people not to speak to you of my situation. To-day I left the road and came on through the woods so that nobody here on the creek should meet me. It was not right; it was very foolish; it was bad in me that I did not requite your confidence with confidence on my part; but I did not know how to help myself. For God's sake, forgive me, Catherine."

She had now withdrawn her hands and laid them across her breast. Lambert had risen. He brushed his hair from his face. With all the thoughts that crossed his brain, with all the feelings that filled his breast, he knew not what more he should say--what he had said.

"Catherine, believe me, oh, believe me! I had not thought when I reached New York that I should not return alone to my home. I will take you back again--will take you where you will. My uncle Christian Ditmar and his wife, my aunt, are old and childless and will be glad to have you; and Conrad and I will again live as we have hitherto. Conrad has ever been to me a kind and faithful brother, and he now feels very sorry that he has so offended you. We will both watch over you--watch over you all--as we always have here where we are the farthest settlers. However, as you will, Catherine, as you will."

She had now raised herself up, and, as she stood there in the light of the moon which had for some time risen above the edge of the forest, Lambert thought that the beloved maiden had never before appeared so beautiful.

She had folded her hands, and, not looking at Lambert, but upward, she said softly but firmly: "I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg--come what will."

They walked back toward the house, side by side, the moon shining in the deep blue sky with radiant clearness. From time to time Lambert cast sly glances at the beloved one. He had yet so much to tell her--so very much--but he would not speak since she herself was silent, and he knew that she could speak more beautifully than he had ever heard any one speak before. It was also so well and he was so thankful that at last the burden was lifted from his soul, and that she had forgiven him and would entirely forgive him when she learned how much he had suffered.

This Catherine had already perceived in the painful vehemence of a man otherwise so quiet and self-contained. She had felt it in the storm that had swept through her own soul. Now after the turmoil of the storm she was at peace. What had happened? Was everything that she silently hoped, lived upon, cherished, forever destroyed? Or, amid thunder-claps, did a new world bloom far more beautiful than she had ever dreamed?

Thus, lost in their own peculiar thoughts, they again reached the house.

"Do you come at last?" said Conrad.

He was standing in the door which he now opened wide for the two. Then he gave his hand to Catherine and his brother and greeted them for the first time. "You before took me so by surprise," said he, "that I did not know where my head stood. In what a confusion everything about here lay! It had become somewhat disordered during the two months that you, Lambert, was away. You know I do not well understand housekeeping. I came home a couple of hours ago, having been upon Black River for eight days after beaver. However, instead of beaver I found Onondagas, whose manner was far from friendly--the cursed scoundrels. I went to Uncle Ditmar's who had, meanwhile, kept our cows. Bless has calved. Ditmar will keep the calf if you do not wish to raise it. Take seats here. I have meanwhile rearranged the evening meal as well as I could after my awkward interference. There is baked ham, your favorite dish, Lambert."

Conrad was unusually busy while he thus spoke. He set the chairs to the table, pulled them back, that he might wipe them off with his brown hand, and then set them up again. Again and again he put wood on the fire, so that the fire crackled and the flame went roaring up the chimney. For no definite reason, except that it had to be so, he kicked his wolfhound, Pluto, while she, having just come in, kept blinking at Catherine with her large yellow eyes. He himself did not look at the strange girl, and when his glance accidentally passed over her face he became red and embarrassed, and speedily turned his eyes away again.

In this way he acted during the whole meal. He talked, stood up, sat down again, tried to put things in order, but brought them into greater confusion, so that Lambert became red in the face and thanked the Lord when he saw Catherine smiling in a friendly way. She thought she could interpret Conrad's conduct in his favor. It was apparent enough that it had not made an unfavorable impression on the young and beautiful girl. It cost her no trouble now and again to return a friendly word to his talk. Lambert was astonished, and it sounded strange to him as she once laughed in the same cheerful, soft tone in which she spoke. He had not heard her laugh once during her whole journey.

So he sat there full of thankful joy that everything had turned out so well after he had been very despondent and was filled with secret unrest like one who, having with difficulty escaped a great danger, does not venture to yield to the feeling of security and seems to feel the ground shaking under his feet.

But as the meal was now drawing to a close another care began to press upon him with increasing weight. During the journey, in the farm-houses which they entered, which were often very small, it had happened more than once that he had passed the night in the same room with the family and his companion. Two or three nights when they could reach no human habitation they had taken their rest in the forest, and he had seen the beloved maiden by the light of the camp-fire sleeping peacefully, while he looked up through the tops of the trees and thanked God that he was permitted to watch over her slumber. But this occurred on the journey--an unusual condition, which could not and should not last. There was in the upper story a store-room partitioned off, in which one of the brothers used to sleep, while the other had his simple couch in a small recess in the lower room. The brothers had hit upon this arrangement the preceding year, when the inroads of the French necessitated redoubled watchfulness. Afterwards, though the danger was over, they had kept up the custom until Lambert's departure. Lambert had thought of each room for Catherine, but Conrad had mentioned during the meal that, on his eight-days' excursion, he had learned that the French were stirring again. Consequently renewed watchfulness was necessary, and that since Lambert must be very tired from his journey, he would undertake the watch for that night.

"Then we will in turn both watch above," said Lambert after a pause. "Catherine will be satisfied for the night here below. To-morrow we will make a better arrangement for her. Is that satisfactory, Catherine?"

"Quite so," replied the young woman. "I saw in the recess sweet-smelling hay, and here is the beautiful white bear-skin; do not trouble yourselves. I shall get along all right. Good night."

She gave Lambert her hand and then Conrad, who looked on with surprise. He wondered at his brother, and followed him up the narrow stairway after they had bolted and barricaded the door.

Catherine watched them as they ascended, drew a deep breath, passed her hand over her forehead, and began to clear away the supper table, and to wash up and put away the dishes, that she might with better courage carry forward the work of reducing things to order which she had before timidly begun. This took a long time. Often she stood benumbed in the midst of her work with her hand pressed against her forehead. Her heart was so full she could have sat down and shed a flood of tears. At the same time a firm, unchecked serenity filled her soul, such as she had experienced when quite a young thing playing at forfeits when the band of children in their colored dresses wildly pursued each other.

Then awakened out of such strange dreams, she again quietly continued her work, and at last looked about the room with a self-satisfied air, since it had now assumed quite a different appearance. Having carefully put out the fire on the hearth, she sought her modest couch that she had prepared in the recess on the farther side of the large room.

Through the narrow port-holes in the thick plank wall there stole in streaks of the moon's rays, spreading about her a faint twilight. It was easy to breathe in the fresh forest exhalation which blew in at the openings and played about her cheeks. The brook purled uninterruptedly. From time to time there was a rustle, first gentle, then swelling out, and then again holding back like the tones of an organ. It was the solemn music of the primitive forest. She had already noticed this music on her journey when, sleeping under the trees on gathered moss, she, with dream-veiled, half-open eyes, saw Lambert sitting at the camp-fire. She could now also hear his step as he made the round of the gallery above. Conrad's tread would be heavier. Once he stopped directly over her head. Was he looking in the distance for the blood-thirsty enemies? or was he listening to the mocking-bird's wonderful song which she had for some time noticed coming from the forest in soft, sobbing tones, as the nightingale had warbled, over in her German home, in the linden tree at the gable of the parsonage. Then again it, shrieked like a vexatious parrot, or laughed like a magpie. This sounded quite ludicrous. Then it was no more the mockingbird's twofold, demon-like singing, but two human voices, and Lambert spoke in excited, suffering tones: "Catherine, can you forgive me?" and Conrad laughed, saying: "Catherine is not at all angry," and she had to smile, and with a smile on her lips she fell asleep.

Meanwhile, as Catherine had correctly supposed, Lambert, walking slowly over the floor of the gallery, kept watch, though Conrad, recurring to what he had reported, assured him that, for the present, the danger of which he had before spoken did not exist, and that he had only mentioned it that he might have good grounds for leaving. He then became very angry as Lambert replied, "I do not know what you mean," threw himself on the bed in the watch-chamber and declared that he was too tired to say another word.

However he did not sleep, for as Lambert, after an hour, softly walked past the open door of the watch-chamber, he thought he heard his name spoken. He stopped and looked in.

"Did you call me, Conrad?"

"Yes," replied Conrad, who had raised himself on his elbow, "I wished to ask you something."

"What?"

"Are you then not married?"

"No; why?"

"Oh! I only asked; so good night."

"Conrad, dear Conrad, I wish with all my heart to tell you everything." But Conrad had already sunk back on the bear skin and had fallen asleep, or pretended that he had.

Lambert went sadly out. "To-morrow," said he to himself, "before we see Catherine, he shall know it, and he will help me, and all will be well."

CHAPTER V

Lambert, having, in the early morning, lain down by the side of Conrad, awoke late and found his brother gone. He had left the block-house at sunrise. Catherine was up and occupied about the hearth when Conrad lightly descended the stairs. He was in a great hurry, and declined the morning soup which she offered him. He would certainly be back before night. Then he took his rifle, hung about him his game bag, and, with Pluto at his heels, went up the creek with long strides.

"The wild youth," said Lambert.

He was quite displeased with Conrad, but that he had intentionally avoided him did not enter his mind. Conrad had acted strangely enough last evening, but then the older brother was accustomed to the unreliable, crisp and often silly humors of the younger one. "Why should Conrad give up a hunt to-day which perhaps he had prearranged with his companions? He will doubtless return by noon with a fat deer and a woodman's appetite."

So said Lambert while, standing at the hearth, he partook of his morning meal. However he did not say that, on the whole, he was not so much put out by his brother's absence--that he reluctantly gave up the sweet habit of being alone with Catherine that he might talk freely with her.

But this morning the pleasant conversation was wanting. Catherine was still and, as Lambert now saw, was pale, and her beaming, brown eyes were veiled. Now that the end of her journey had been reached she felt how great the strain had been; but soon, smiling, accommodated herself to the situation.

"You need not feel concerned," said she. "In a couple of days--perhaps hours--all will be regained. I will not boast, but I have always been able to accomplish what others could, and often a little more, and, if you are not too strict a master, you shall be satisfied with your maid-servant."

To Lambert it seemed as if the sun had suddenly been overcast. With trembling hand he put down the cup which he had not yet entirely emptied.

"You are not my maid-servant, Catherine," he said gently.

"Yes I am, Lambert, yes I am, though you magnanimously tore up the evidence of my indebtedness," replied the young maiden. "I owe you none the less on that account. The debt is now doubled. You know it well and yet it is proper for me to say it. I desired to be to you a good and faithful maid-servant--to you and yours. I supposed nothing else but that your parents were still alive, and I heartily rejoiced that I could serve them. You said nothing about your parents, I think, because you did not wish to make me feel sad. Now your parents, like mine, are dead, and you live here alone with your brother, so I am your maid-servant and your brother's."

Lambert made a motion as though he wished to reply, but his half-raised arm fell powerless, and his opened lips again closed. He had intended to say: "I love you, Catherine. Do you not see it?" How could he now say it?

Catherine continued:

"I beg you, Lambert, with this understanding, to talk with your brother, if you have not already done so. You are the elder and know me better. He is young and impetuous, as it seems, and now sees me for the first time. And now, Lambert, you surely have something better to do than to stand here and talk with me. I have to clear away a little here yet, and will follow you should you not go far, if you do not object. I should like to see all, and know about every part."

She turned to him and gave him her hand. "Does that please you?" she asked smiling.

"Entirely, entirely," replied Lambert. Tears stood in his eyes, but the dear girl wanted it so, and that was enough.

"I will first go to the barn-yard," said he, "and then into the forest. This afternoon I intended to go to Uncle Ditmar's. Perhaps you will accompany me."

He went out hastily. Catherine looked at him with sad smiles. "You good, dear, best man," said she, "it is not my fault that I distress you, but I must think of us all. The madcap will probably now be satisfied."

Catherine now felt herself somewhat relieved of the weight that had lain on her heart since the peculiar scene with Conrad in the morning. Involuntarily she constantly thought about how alarmed Conrad appeared when, as he came down the narrow, steep stairs, he found her already on the hearth; how he had then approached her and stared at her with his large, glistening eyes, and had said: "Are you man and wife, or are you not? If you are, then it will be best for me to send a bullet through my head; but, lie not--for God's sake, do not lie, otherwise I will indeed shoot myself, but first surely both of you."

Then as Catherine drew back from the violence, he began to laugh. "Now, one does not lightly shoot such a brother dead, who is so good that he could not be better, and a girl who is so handsome, so wonderfully beautiful. So far as I am concerned I need feel no anxiety about being shot dead. This can happen to me any day. Pluto, beast, are you again staring at her? Wait! I will teach you manners." With this he hastened away. Outside Pluto howled grievously, as though she would teach Catherine that her master was not accustomed to indulge in vain threats.

"Now he will be satisfied," said Catherine, yet a couple of times, while she cleared away the breakfast and made some preparations for the simple dinner. To-day she did not, like yesterday, have to gather up laboriously what she needed; everything was at her hand. Everything appeared as if familiar to her--as though she had known it from youth up. She hummed her favorite song, "Were I a wild falcon I would soar aloft," and then interrupted herself and said: "It has been childish for me to be so fearful. He loves him; that one sees clearly. He has called him the best brother, and surely, at the bottom of his heart, he is kind though his eyes have so wild a look. Before glittering eyes which are so handsome one needs not be afraid. But Lambert's eyes are still handsomer."

Catherine stepped to the door. It was a most beautiful spring morning. Small white clouds passed quietly over the light blue sky. Golden stars danced in the creek. Dew-drops sparkled in the luxuriant grass of the meadow--here in emerald green, in blue and purple shades there. The woods which encircled the hill on which the house stood looked down quietly. Over a rocky height that projected steep out of the forest there hovered a great eagle with extended wings sporting in the balmy air that was breathing through the valley and whose every puff was charged with balsamic aroma.

Catherine folded her hands and her eyes filled with tears. It seemed to her as if she were again standing in the small church of her home village, and that she heard her father's mild voice pronounce the benediction over the congregation: "The Lord let the light of His countenance fall upon you and give you peace."

The last remains of unrest had passed away from her and, in her present mood, she went to seek Lambert, whom she supposed to be at the buildings which, as she passed around the block-house, she saw standing at some distance towards the forest.

She found him working at a hedge which inclosed part of a field in which the lance-shaped, bright leaves of the Indian-corn waved in the morning wind. Young, red-blossomed apple trees, whose trunks had been carefully wound with thorns, had been planted around the fields.

"This the deer did last night," said Lambert, as he approached a damaged place. "Here are the fresh tracks. Conrad knows how to keep them respectful, but during the eight days that he has been away they have again become bold."

"I will help you," said Catherine, after she had looked on for a few minutes.

"This is no labor for you," said Lambert, looking up.

"So, once for all, you must not speak," serenely replied Catherine. "If you want a princess in your house you must at once send me away again. I own myself unfit for that."

Lambert smiled with pleasure when he saw how skillfully she took hold of the matter, and how handy she was. He now noticed for the first time that the roses had again blossomed on her cheeks; and as she now, in helping him, bent over and back, the agreeable play of the lines of her slender, girlish body filled him with trembling delight.

"But you also should not be unemployed," said Catherine.

The young man, blushing deeply, returned to his work with redoubled zeal, so that it was soon completed.

"What comes next?" asked Catherine.

"I intended to go up into the woods to look after my pine trees. There will be probably more to do there than here, where my kind uncle has kept every thing so well in order. But about woodcraft he understands little or nothing; and Conrad concerns himself only with his hunting. It was fortunate that I could do the chief labor before I left home in the spring."

He hung the gun, which leaned against the hedge near him, over his shoulder and looked at Catherine.

Lingering he said: "Will you go with me? It is not far."

"That is truly fortunate," said Catherine. "You know I am shy of long roads. Will you not rather saddle Hans?"

She called the horse, grazing in an enclosure near by, in which there was also a small flock of black-wooled sheep. He pricked up his ears, came slowly, swinging his tail, and put his head over the bars.

"You good Hans," said Catherine, brushing the thick forelock out of the eyes of the animal, "I gave you a good deal of trouble on the long journey."

"The trouble was not so very great. Is it not so, old Hans?" said Lambert.

Hans seemed to think that to such an idle question no answer was necessary and went on quietly chewing his last mouthful of grass. The young people stood and looked on and stroked the head and neck of the animal, while in the branches of a blossoming apple tree a robin-redbreast sang. Their hands touched. Lambert's large eyes assumed a determined expression and then were raised with a cordial look to the blushing face of the maiden.