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Title: The German Pioneers
       A Tale of the Mohawk

Author: Friedrich Spielhagen

Translator: Levi Sternberg

Release Date: December 5, 2010 [EBook #34583]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GERMAN PIONEERS ***




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[Illustration: "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 L89, 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 L99 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.

"Now you must also show me the barn-yard," said Catherine.

"Cheerfully," said Lambert.

They entered the barn-yard which like the house was inclosed with a
stone-wall of the height of a man, and contained several low buildings
formed of logs. First the stable in which, in the winter and in bad
weather, Hans, the cows and the sheep stayed quietly together. This was
now empty with the exception of a couple of half-grown pigs grunting
within a partition, and a large flock of hens and turkeys which had
been contentedly scratching in the straw, but now, frightened at the
unwelcome intrusion, cackling and flying apart rushed out of the open
door. Then they entered the work-shop, in which Lambert worked during
the winter, and where, besides excellent timber and all kinds of tools,
there were standing, begun and finished, tubs which would have done
credit to a cooper.

"In the fall these are all filled with tar and rosin," said Lambert,
"and sent to Albany. It won't be long before I must stick to this, and
my Uncle Ditmar, of whom I learned coopering, will help me, I suppose,
and also Conrad, though he does not like mechanical labor. Still he can
do anything he pleases, and does it better than one who devotes his
life to it."

Catherine was pleased to hear that Lambert was so proud of his younger
brother, but did not speak of it. It seemed to her as if a dark shadow
had passed over her heart, which had but now been as sunny as the
surrounding golden, spring landscape.

They left the barn-yard and, ascending by degrees, soon reached the
edge of the woods, which here extended back farther from the level
ground, so that, as they turned about, the valley lay like a great
meadow in the woods, in the midst of which was the blockhouse on the
hill. The creek was concealed by the reeds which fringed its shore.
Deep peace rested in happy quietude on the earth in its morning
freshness. But up in the air there appeared an unusual spectacle. The
eagle which Catherine had before observed had been joined by another.
They sailed directly over the house and wound their circles together
swifter and ever swifter until, with loud outcries, they rushed against
each other, striking with their mighty wings, whirling round each
other, clasping each other, and falling like a stone. Then again they
separated, sailed aloft, again rushed together, until at length one
flew toward the woods followed by the other.

"A hateful sight," said Catherine. "The angry beasts!"

"We are accustomed to that," said Lambert.

Catherine was greatly disturbed by this battle scene. Involuntarily she
had again to think of Conrad.

As they now turned into the woods she asked:

"Do you truly love your brother?"

"And he me," said Lambert.

"He is yet so young," Catherine began again.

"Ten years younger than I. I am thirty-two. Our mother died when he was
born. Good Aunt Ditmar, our sainted mother's sister, took him home
since my father and I, poor youngster, naturally did not know how to
help ourselves. When he was a couple of years old he came again to us,
though his aunt would gladly have kept him. But father did not stand
any too well with uncle, and was jealous, fearing that his child would
become entirely estranged from him. So I waited on and brought up the
little orphaned rogue as best I could, and, since he grew so, I thought
that any mother would be proud of the boy. Then, when I could no longer
carry him, I played with him, and taught him the little I had learned,
and so we have been together day and night, and an angry word has never
passed between us, though he was as wild and intractable as a young
bear. Father's position in respect to him was very difficult, being
himself a determined man and quite passionate. Once, being at variance,
father raised his hand against the eleven-year-old boy, who was as
brave and proud as a man. He ran away into the woods and did not
return, so that we thought that he had either committed suicide, or had
been torn in pieces by the bears. Meanwhile my young gentleman stuck
among the Indians at Oneida Lake and did not let anything be seen or
heard of him for three years, until, a few days after father's death,
he suddenly entered the block-house where I sat alone and sad. At first
I did not know him, for he had grown a couple of heads taller and was
dressed in Indian style. But he fell upon my neck and wept bitterly,
and said:

"'I heard by chance that our father was lying on his death-bed. I have
been walking three days and three nights to see him again.' In the
midst of his weeping he threw back his head and, with sparkling eyes,
exclaimed: 'But do not think that I have forgiven him for striking me;
but I am sorry that I ran away.' So he came again as he had gone, wild
and proud, and at the next moment soft and kind."

Lambert was silent. After a short pause he said: "I wish I had told you
all this before; you would then not have been so frightened last
evening."

"And this morning," said Catherine to herself.

Lambert continued: "They here call him the Indian, and the name fits
him in more than one respect. At least no Indian would undertake to
compete with him in those things in which they chiefly excel. In all
their arts Conrad beats them; and then he loves the hunt, the forest
and rambling ways just as the red-skins do. But his heart is true as
pure gold, and in that he is not a red-skin, who are all as false as a
jack-o'-lantern in the swamp. For this reason we all here on the Mohawk
and on the Schoharie, old and young, love him. Wherever there are
German settlers there he comes on his hunting expeditions, and is
everywhere welcome. The people sleep without fear when he is there, for
they know they are guarded by the best rifle in the colony."

Lambert's eyes brightened as he spoke about his brother. Suddenly his
face became beclouded.

"Who knows," continued he, "how different it might have been last year
had he been here with us? But when Belletre broke loose with his
devilish Indians and his French, who are much worse devils, we were
entirely unprepared. We would not believe the Indian who brought us the
news. Conrad would have known what there was of it, and would soon have
brought it out. But he remained above between the lakes on a hunt; so
we missed his arm and rifle. Then took place the remarkable
circumstance that they did not come here to Canada Creek, and that our
houses escaped their ravages. This afterward caused bad blood, and one
could hear whisperings about treachery, though, at the first alarm, we
all hurried forward and did our share. Conrad helped us fight in his
own way. He says nothing about it, but I think that many an Indian, who
in the morning went hunting, was vainly waited for at his camp-fire in
the evening, and has not to this day returned to his wigwam."

A shudder passed over Catherine. What had the wild man said this
morning? "As far as it concerns me I need not trouble myself about
being shot to death." Dreadful! Had she not seen as she came up the
Mohawk valley where many houses had been burned which had not been
rebuilt, the entire families having been killed by the merciless
enemies? And how many plain wooden crosses in green fields, along the
road, in the edge of the woods, where a peaceful farmer, a helpless
wife, a playful child, had been pitilessly killed. No, no! It was an
honorable conflict for house and home, for body and life--the same
conflict through which her good father with his whole congregation had
been driven out of Germany. They knew not how to resist their shameless
and disorderly oppressors except by flight over the sea into this
wilderness at the furthest west. Whither shall they yet fly, since the
same enemy even here begrudges them life and freedom? Here one cannot
say: "Let us forsake our houses and shake the dust from our feet." Here
the word is wait, fight, conquer, or die. Not in empty threatening did
the farmer as he went to his peaceful labor carry his gun on his
shoulder.

"I wish I too knew how to handle the rifle," said Catherine.

"Like my Aunt Ursul," said Lambert laughing. "She shoots as well as any
one of us, Conrad naturally being excepted. Nor does she leave her
rifle at home. Here we are, at the pinery."

They had reached a tall forest, such as Catherine on her journey, had
not hitherto seen. The powerful trunks shot up like the pillars of a
dome and intertwined their mighty tops in an arch through whose dark
vaults here and there red sun-rays flashed. The morning wind soughed
through the wide halls, having now become stronger, and ascending,
gently died at the top like the murmur of the sea.

"This seems to have stood so since the first day of creation," said
Catherine.

"And yet its days are numbered," said Lambert. "In a couple of years
there will be little more to be seen of it. I am sorry for the
beautiful trees, and now, since you so admire them, I am doubly sorry.
But there is no longer any remedy. See, here my labor begins."

A slight depression, through which a brooklet purled on its way to the
creek, separated this piece of woods from another which had already
been prepared the second year for the manufacture of tar. Lambert
explained to his companion that each of the large trees was divided
into four quarters. "In the spring, as soon as the sap begins to rise,
the north quarter, where the sun has the least power, is peeled off for
two feet in order to draw off the turpentine. In the fall, before the
sap begins to slacken, the southern quarter is treated in the same way.
The following spring the eastern side, and in the fall the western
side, is in like manner peeled. Then the upper part of the tree, filled
with turpentine, is cut down and split up and roasted in an oven so
prepared as to secure the tar. This I will show you later. This indeed
is not a pleasing sight," said Lambert, "nor will I take you farther,
where the poor naked stumps stand and decay. It cannot well be
otherwise. One must live, and we here on Canada Creek have nothing
else, or scarcely anything else, since our small cultivated acreage
must be devoted to our most urgent necessities. So must also our live
stock, though we have plenty of fertile plow-land and rich meadow-land.
But what can one do when he is every instant in danger, and his crops
are destroyed, and his herds are driven off? They must leave us our
pine trees, and our ovens can soon be rebuilt. To replace the burnt
casks and utensils we make new ones. Hence it was for us a question of
life or death when, last winter, Mr. Albert Livingston wished to
confine us to the valley, and claimed the woods on the hills for
himself, notwithstanding that we had first bought both valley and
forest from the Indians, and again after that from the Government. But
all this I told you often enough on the journey, and you have listened
patiently, and rejoice that the business has been arranged in our
favor. God be praised--"

"And your faithful care," said Catherine. "You had it hard enough on
the long, tiresome journey, from which you did not return unencumbered.
After you had been relieved of the old care you were laden with a new
one in me, a poor, helpless girl."

"Shall I deny it?" replied Lambert. "Yes, Catherine, with you there
came a new care to me. You know what I mean. I feared I had done wrong
to bring you here, where everybody's life is in daily, yes, hourly
danger. This indeed I did not conceal from you, though I felt that you
would not on this account be frightened back. But--"

"Then don't distress yourself further about it," said Catherine. "Or do
you think you have been deceived in me?"

"No," answered Lambert. "But since we are here, it has appeared to me
as though I should have set the matter forth more pressingly. So I also
blame myself that I let Conrad go away this morning without first more
fully ascertaining what he knows about the enemy. He is too careless to
take to heart anything of that kind, I should use better judgment."

"Better judgment, but not less courage," said Catherine. "If I must
believe that my coming has robbed you of your cool courage, how could I
forgive myself for having come here with you? No, Lambert, you must not
so wrong me. I will also learn to use the rifle like Ursul. Why do you
laugh?"

"I cannot think of you and the good old lady together without
laughing," said Lambert.

"Perhaps I shall also live to be old, and, it is to be hoped, good. I
shall then take it amiss if mischievous young people laugh at me."

"You old!" said Lambert, shaking his head. "You old! This I can
conceive as little as how this rivulet must begin if it would flow up
these rocks!"

They now went on between the tree-trunks down to the creek, and were
walking along the edge where, in the mud of the shore, bison and deer
had impressed their deep trails. The stream did not run as smoothly
here as on the level ground. Its course was obstructed, now by rocks
covered with moss a hundred years old, now by an immense tree-trunk
which had fallen diagonally across, and whose withered branches
stretched down into the brown water. A little further up it had to make
its way over rocks, over which it leapt in indescribable, foam-covered
cascades. From where they both stood one could see a part of the fall,
like the fluttering ends of a white garment. The roar was softened by
the distance and accorded remarkably well with the sound of the morning
wind in the majestic tree-tops. With this exception there was an
oppressive stillness in the primitive forest, which the occasional
flight of a flock of pigeons overhead, the hammering of the woodpecker,
the cawing of crows, the chirping of a little bird high above in the
branches, and the piping of a little squirrel, seemed to make only the
stiller. Soft vaporous shadows filled the woods. But in the clear space
above the creek there was spread a golden twilight bewitchingly woven
out of light and shadow. In this enchanting light how bright the
beloved one appeared to her lover. He could not turn his eyes from
her as he now sat near her feet in the moss. Her rich, dark hair
which encircled her well-formed head like a crown; the beautiful,
slanting brows, the long, silky eyelashes; the sweet face; the heavenly
form--ah! all this, on the long journey, had made a deep impression;
but now it seemed as if he had not known it before--as though he now
saw for the first time that she was so beautiful, so wonderfully
beautiful. Also her dark eyelashes were raised, and her glance wandered
over the blue eyes which had never before seemed so deep and bright,
turned back timidly, then looked again more keenly, and could no longer
withdraw themselves; then out of their blue depths there came such
wonderful flashes that her heart stood still, and suddenly again she
felt it bounding and beating against the heart of the beloved man who
held her infolded in his arms. Then they released each other. Each
caught the other's hand. They sank again into each other's arms,
exchanged warm kisses and promises, and laughed, and cried, and said
they had loved each other from the moment in which they first saw each
other, and would do so to the last.

Suddenly Catherine shrunk back. "Conrad!" she cried. "O, my God!
Lambert, what are we beginning?"

"What has happened, my darling?" asked Lambert, while he sought again
to draw the beloved one to him.

"No, no," said Catherine, "this must first be arranged. O, why did I
not tell you? But how could I speak of it before? Now indeed I must
speak, even though it be too late."

Without hesitating and in a becoming manner she told Lambert what
Conrad had said in the morning, and how strange his conduct, and how
threatening his appearance had been. "I seem constantly to hear his
laugh," said she at last. "Great God, there he is!"

She pointed with her trembling hand up the creek to the place where,
between the dark underwood, the foam-streaks of the waterfall
fluttered.

"Where?" asked Lambert.

"Conrad! I thought I saw him slipping away between the trunks of the
trees."

Lambert shook his head.

"Then he would be there yet," said he. "It must have been a deer that
wanted to go to the spring. Surely you are causelessly frightened. I
can well believe that the youth finds my beautiful girl handsome, but
love as I do, that he cannot. Hereafter he will be happy in seeing me
happy."

"But now I surely have heard a human voice," cried Catherine.

"I, too, this time," said Lambert, "but it came from up the creek.
Hark!"

"He, holla, holla, he, ho!" it now sounded.

"That is Aunt Ursul," said Lambert. "How does she come now to be here?"

A dark shadow passed over his face, which however at once disappeared
as Catherine impressed a hearty kiss on his lips, and said: "Quick,
Lambert; let us now go to meet your aunt. See that she observes
nothing. Do you hear?"

"There she is already," said Lambert, half vexed, half laughing, as now
a large person, whose clothes were an unusual mixture of women's and
men's clothing, and who, carrying a rifle on her shoulder, pressing
through the bushes, soon reached the pair.




                               CHAPTER VI


"So!" said Aunt Ursul. "There yon are, sir!"

She remained standing, took her rifle from her shoulder and looked with
large, round eyes on those who were approaching, like a beast of prey
on a coming victim.

"God bless you, aunt," said Lambert, extending his hand to his old
friend in salutation. "It is long since we have seen each other."

"And it might have been longer had it depended on you, sir," replied
Aunt Ursul. "But one must first visit his pinery. Relatives and friends
come later. It is fortunate that Aunt Ursul knows her people, or she
might have had to look long for you, sir."

She threw her gun with a powerful swing on her shoulder, turned short
on the heel of her man's boots, and began to stride back over the road
along the creek by which she had come. She had returned Lambert's
salutation but slightly, and had not noticed Catherine at all.

"How did you learn that I am back?" asked Lambert.

"Not from you, sir," replied Aunt Ursul.

"How is uncle?"

"As usual."

"You have taken such good care of my things--"

"One must, when the men are wandering about the country."

"You well know, aunt, that I did not remain so long away for release
from labor, nor entirely on my own account. Nor was my journey useless.
The business that took me to New York is so arranged that you and
others will be satisfied."

"So!" said Ursul.

"And I have likewise brought with me for you a young female friend,
whom you will love as she deserves, and whom you will receive kindly as
you do all who need your help."

"So!" said Aunt Ursul.

The path was so narrow that two could not walk abreast. Ursul did not
turn about, but Lambert now did so and observed that Catherine was
quite pale, and that tears stood in her eyes. The sight cut him to the
heart, as he had but a little before seen the beautiful face radiant
with happiness. "Have good courage, my girl," said he softly. "She does
not mean unkindly."

Catherine tried to smile through her tears, and bowed as if she would
say: "Let it pass. Since you love me I can bear anything."

"Lambert!" called Ursul, who was vigorously walking on, "come here!"

"Only go," stammered Catherine; "but, for God's sake, tell her nothing.
I could not endure it."

The young man tore himself away with a powerful effort and followed
Ursul Ditmar, whom he soon overtook.

"Come to my side," said Aunt Ursul; "the path is wide enough so you
need no longer trot behind me."

Lambert did as his aunt desired. Aunt Ursul could not bear opposition,
and Lambert had from his youth honored her as a second mother. However
he could not refrain from saying with mild reproach, "You are very
rough with the poor girl, aunt."

"So!" said the dame. "Do you think so? It is naturally very important
for an old person like me to know what such a look into the world
means. No, I may as well tell you what I think. You have done a foolish
thing, sir, do you hear--a besotted, foolish thing in that at such a
time you have burdened yourself with a woman. If, instead, you had
brought half a dozen men, these we could indeed have used to better
advantage."

"But, Aunt Ursul, first hear me--"

"I will not listen! I know the whole story as though I had been present
from the beginning. Poor famished creatures, who all looked as though
they had already for four weeks played the ghost. Surely! It is a sin
and shame, and may the evil one pay back the greedy sharpers and
Hollanders, and pour melted gold down their hungry throats! But when a
gun is fired off it is well not to be in front of it. Why did you stand
near and gaze when you knew that you had such a butter-heart in your
breast? Now you have the burden. What will be the result? You will
naturally marry the girl. And then? Then there comes every year a
crying brat until there are four or five. At the fifth the poor
creature dies and Aunt Ursul can then take the young brood and raise
them. But I tell you, that won't do, by any means! I would not
undertake it should you offer me a ton of gold for each child."

Aunt Ursul had spoken so excitedly and in so loud a voice that Lambert
was glad when, turning, he saw Catherine following slowly at a great
distance, her head bowed down and she often plucking a wood-flower.

"How can you talk in that way, aunt?" said Lambert.

"To you it would indeed be pleasanter should I utter what first comes
into the mouth, and say yea, and amen, to what you dumbheads have
hatched out. Furthermore, I have no sympathy for you, sir. You have
prepared your own soup. You must eat it yourself. Poor girl! Thrust out
into the world naked and bare, so to speak, and with such eyes--just
like your sainted mother's--by which all men were captivated. This is
itself already a heaven-appearing misfortune. I can sing a song about
it. Why do you laugh, you green woodpecker? Do you think, since now, in
my fifty-seventh year, I am not as slim as an osier-switch and as
smooth as an eel, I could not turn the heads of the men at seventeen?
You are getting on beautifully. I tell you how foolish they were,
though it isn't worth while to say it, for they are all so. But I had
half a dozen on every finger, and your girl has as yet but two."

"Surely I do not understand you, aunt," said Lambert, whose anxiety
kept increasing as long as she kept talking in her peculiar way.

"Well, then, I will speak plainly," said Ursul, after she had cast a
rapid glance toward Catherine. "This morning--I was just raking up my
hay--your brother came with such a leap over the gate that my first
impulse was to give him one over the head, and, distracted and wild, to
my horror, began to speak so incoherently, that no one besides me, who
know him from childhood, could have gathered his meaning; saying that
he must shoot himself dead since you could not both marry her, and
other foolish talk, all showing that he is madly and blindly in love
with the girl."

Lambert was frightened, as he now heard from the mouth of Aunt Ursul
what Catherine herself had told him a few minutes before. So the bad
temper had not been blown away by the first morning wind that fanned
the cheeks of the hunter, as he had hoped it would be. He had carried
it at least as far as Aunt Ursul's.

"Surely you have set his head right, aunt?" said Lambert.

"First set right the head of that pine," said Aunt Ursul, pointing to
an immense tree which had been shattered by lightning so that its top
now held by the bark, hung to the trunk. "And then, sir, you did not do
right in not keeping your promise to bring the young man a wife as you
have done for yourself."

"I promised nothing of the kind," replied Lambert earnestly. "It was
impossible for me to believe that Conrad was serious when he called
after me, as I was already trotting off down the valley: 'Bring
back with you a wife for each of us!' I never thought of it
again--especially not when heaven threw in my way a poor orphan, and I
offered her, forsaken by the whole world, a refuge with me. You see,
aunt, that I am indeed blameless."

"Then give him the girl," said Ursul.

"Sooner my life," earnestly replied Lambert.

"I would like to know," said Ursul, "whether I cannot justly say that
beauty is a woman's misfortune, and I suppose you will admit it. Nor is
it less so for the men who are bewitched by it. What do the poor
creatures gain by it? Nothing more than the turtledoves which I found
covered with blood near your house. What do you gain by it? Just as
much as the two eagles who, on account of those doves, tore the flesh
from each other's bodies. Alas, poor women! unhappy women!"

"Conrad will listen to reason," said Lambert, with trembling lips.

"I do not know," replied Ursul, shaking her large head. "It often
happens that men-folks become reasonable, but they usually wait until
it is too late. So I fear it will also be this time. Now he has gone
into the woods, and heaven knows how long he will wander about there,
and that at a time when we cannot spare a single man--and him least of
all."

"He won't fail us when we need him," said Lambert.

"He failed us last year, and did we not need him then? But so men are,
and especially you young men. You make a hunting match, or get up a
race, or, at a wedding, dance the soles off your feet, and do
everything as it pleases you, and the rest you let go as it pleases
God. We saw it last year. How I talked, and preached, urging you to
watchfulness, after I saw that General Abercrombie in Albany did not
bestir himself, and naturally your hands were lying in your laps. I
preached to deaf ears. Afterward when the abominable French broke
in and sunk, and burned, and murdered after their wicked heart's
desire--yes, now every one protected his own head as best he could. But
how many houses might still stand, how many wives and children could
to-day yet look at the lovely sun and praise their heavenly Father, if
you from the first had stood together as it became intelligent men? And
now, Lambert, there stands my horse and I do not know what more to say
to you; so help yourself out of the mire and me on my horse; and, as to
what concerns the lady, I will come again to-morrow, or you can bring
her to me. I will not bite her. Have no care. Today I won't stay
longer. God protect you, Lambert. Give my compliments to the lady. What
is her name?"

"Catherine Weise," said Lambert. "She is an orphan. Her father, who was
a preacher, and, out of love for his people, emigrated with them, she
lost eight days before the ship reached New York."

"Catherine," said Ursul. "Our dear Father in heaven! So I always wanted
to call my daughter, should I have one. Both my sainted grandmothers
had that name. Nay, things happen alike. Compliments to the girl, who
seems to be a well-behaved person, and God protect you, Lambert."

The Amazon arranged her clothes, which was somewhat difficult, as she
sat like a man in the saddle, chirruped to her horse, gave him a hard
cut over the neck, and trotted briskly away from the edge of the woods
where they had stood, down the hill, over the meadow, until she reached
the road which led from the creek to the other farm-houses.

The young man looked at the retreating figure with sad glances and a
deep sigh. He heard behind him a light step. He turned eagerly and
opened his arms to the beloved one. But Catherine shook her handsome
head. Her large, inquiring dark eyes, in which there were still some
traces of tears, rested on his face.

"For God's sake!" exclaimed Lambert, "why do you look in such a strange
way, Catherine? What have we to do with others? I love you."

"And I you," said Catherine, "but it must happen."

"What must happen? Catherine, dear Catherine," cried Lambert.

"Come," said the maiden, "let us sit down here and talk with each other
quietly, very quietly."

She sat down on the trunk of a half-buried pine and looked thoughtfully
before her.

Lambert seated himself at her side. He wished to speak, but before he
could find the right word, Catherine raised her eyes and said:

"See, Lambert, how much you have kindly done for me, a poor girl, and I
could not do otherwise than give you back the only thing I have--my
all--and love you with all the strength of my soul, with every drop of
blood in my heart. I could not do otherwise, and it will be so as long
as I live, and after this life throughout eternity. But, Lambert, it
was not right for me that, in addition to the much and the beautiful
that you have given me, I should also take your love. I felt this from
the first day on, and I tried to prevent your seeing my love, though I
confess it was a hard task."

Catherine's voice trembled, but she held back the tears that were ready
to break from her eyes, and continued:

"I felt from the beginning--and I have said to myself, and promised
thousands of times--that I would be a maid-servant to you and your
parents and relatives, and, should you bring home a wife, I would also
serve her and her children, and so help, as much as I could, to promote
your happiness and that of all related to you. When I yesterday learned
that you no longer have parents I fled. I wished to flee, while a
voice, which I only now rightly understand, said that it would come
about as it now has come, and as it should not have come. I have not
listened to the voice of my conscience, and the punishment follows at
its heels. Your brother is angry at you on my account. Your aunt has
left you in anger on my account. What a bad girl I must be, could I
calmly look on and see how unhappy I am making him for whom I would
give my blood, drop by drop. For this reason it must take place. You
have given me permission to go where I will--and God will guide my
steps."

Having uttered these words she arose, pale, having her hands folded
under her bosom, and her tearless eyes having a far-off look.

Immediately Lambert stood up before her, and her eyes met his, which
shone with a wonderfully clear and steady light. "Catherine!"

More he did not say. But it was the right word and the right tone--a
cordial tone full of tender suggestion, and yet so firm, so true, that
it resounded again in the heart of the maiden: "Catherine!" and filled
her soul with sweet pleasure. What she had just said, in the bitter
feeling of her injured pride, and in her painful conviction that she
must subordinate her own happiness and the happiness of him she
loved--it now seemed to her but idle breath, like the wind sweeping
above through the rustling tops of the pines and below over the bending
grass of the meadow. The pines stood firm, the grass rose again, and
everything remained as it was before--yes, more beautiful and
delightful than before. What was now her pride except a small
additional offering that she brought to her beloved who would not be
happy without her--who without her could not be happy? This Lambert
said to her again and again; and she said to him that separation from
her beloved and death would be the same for her, and that she would
never again think of it, but that she could live for him and be happy
with him.

So they sat a long time at the edge of the primitive forest in the
shadow of the venerable trees--before them the sunlit prairie with its
bending flowers and grass, alone--speaking in whispers, as though the
mottled butterflies which were moving about the flowers must not hear.
And if a bird happened to fly past uttering his warning cry,
frightened, they crowded close to each other and then laughed, happy
that they were alone and might sink into each other's arms and say what
they had already said a hundred times, and yet did not get tired of
saying and hearing it.

Then they formed plans for the future--far-reaching plans--that during
the fall they would clear at least yet five acres, and that they would
in any case keep the calf of which Aunt Ursul had the care, and whether
it would not be best to partition off a chamber in the upper story of
the house, leaving sufficient space for the store-room; and, as the
stairway was very narrow and steep, they would make a new one. They
must also not fail to have a suitable garden in which to raise greens
and gooseberries and currants; and a honeysuckle-arbor, such as
Catherine had in her father's garden, there surely must be, though
Lambert was not sure that he quite understood what Catherine meant by a
honeysuckle-arbor.

The ascending sun suggested their return home. Lambert was disinclined
to leave the woods in whose shade the complete fullness of his
happiness had been revealed. But Catherine said: "No, you must not on
my account neglect a single duty that rests on you. Otherwise your
friends, who consider it a misfortune that you have taken up a poor
girl like me, will be right. So you must yet to-day ride to your
neighbors with your compliments. They would take it amiss should you
not do it, and they would be right. It is your duty to inform them
about your journey, which you undertook for their best interest as well
as your own. They will be pleased to see you again, and that everything
has turned out so well."

"And where shall I leave you, in the meantime?" asked Lambert, as they
now walked slowly along the creek toward the house.

"Where a woman should be--at home," said Catherine.

"I unwillingly leave you there," said Lambert. "I do not believe I
could return before evening, however I might hasten. It is six miles to
Adam Bellinger's, who lives near the mouth of the creek and who is the
last of us six who prepared the petition to the governor. On the way I
must stop three times, or rather four times, for I must not ride past
my old Uncle Ditmar. It is impossible for me to leave you so long
alone, since the French are stirring again, and I do not know how far
they have come already."

"Here good advice is dear," said Catherine laughing mischievously. "You
can't take me along to-day, after you yesterday went far out of your
way so that your neighbors should not see what a wonderful rarity you
had brought with you on your return from your journey."

"Nor shall it be different," said Lambert, but little pained by the
gentle raillery, accompanied as it was with a kiss. "Though you do not
go the whole distance, you can at least go as far as Ditmar's."

Catherine arched her eyebrows: "Are you quite sure that I should be
kindly received there?" she asked gently.

"Quite sure," said Lambert, earnestly, "the more so as my aunt was
unfriendly to you before. As far as I know her she has no stronger wish
than to repair the mischief. Believe me, Catherine, a better heart than
Aunt Ursul's cannot be found, though the severe fate that has befallen
her has made her peculiar and unmannerly."

"Tell me about it," said Catherine.

"It is a dreadful history," said Lambert, "and I would rather not
rehearse it; but you will think otherwise of my aunt when you meet her,
and so let it be.

"It is now thirteen years--it was in 'forty-four and I was
nineteen--when war broke out between the English and the French, which
they call King George's war. Neither the English nor the French could
raise many men, so they had to rely on the Indians, each party trying
by every means to win them to itself and set them against the opposite
party. Now, the English had a treaty of a long standing with the Six
Nations; but at this time they also began to waver and to unite with
the French, who knew better how to flatter them. So many fell away, and
entered into secret or open partnership with our foes. The uncertainty
daily increased. Nobody had any assurance of his life. The Germans
here on the Mohawk, and especially on the creek, had hitherto escaped;
but the danger came nearer and nearer to us, and then it was that
we went to our work with a rifle on the shoulder, and when father,
with the help of a couple of blacks from Virginia--secured for the
occasion--strengthened the block-house as it is now. Before, it was
more open.

"Nicolas Herkimer settled on the Mohawk, and several others followed
his example. Most of them, however, took the matter more lightly, and
said the French or Indians should only come on; they would soon show
them the road, and send them home with bloody heads. About this they
debated with Uncle Ditmar, and became angry at him since he was always
full of courage and of bitter hatred of the French whom he had already
learned to know on the other side, where they had burned his parents'
house and driven them from their home. He thought that should we wait
until the French came to us it would be altogether too late. It was a
shame that now everybody should think only of himself. All should
assemble here, and on the Mohawk, and on the Schoharie; that no one
should stay at home who could fire off a rifle, and that some should go
to meet the French, and pay them back, in their own territory, what
before and since they have done to us. Perhaps the old man was right,
but nobody listened to him. Then came the year 'forty-six, when the
French with their Indians swept through the valley of the Mohawk as far
as Schenectady and Albany, and destroyed and robbed what they found,
and killed and scalped what came in their way, and committed every
conceivable horror. My uncle could stand it no longer. He went out with
his four sons--my cousins--of whom the eldest was twenty-six and the
youngest nineteen. Aunt Ursul would not stay at home, but went along,
with her rifle on her shoulder, just as you saw her awhile ago, and
they carried on war by themselves and killed many French and Indians,
until they were resting on a certain day among a small clump of trees
on the open prairie and, not noticing, were overrun from all sides.
There my aunt saw her sons fall, one after the other, while she was
loading the guns. At last old Ditmar was struck by a stray bullet and
sank at her feet apparently dead. Aunt Ursul fired off the gun she had
loaded once more and laid a Frenchman low, seized it by the muzzle, and
swinging the butt on high she rushed out and struck about her so, that
the Indians themselves, at sight of such bravery, did not kill her, but
overpowered her, and tied her, and took her along as prisoner. They
likewise took uncle, who gave signs of life, when an Indian had already
torn his scalp half off. Perhaps they intended to spare them for a
later, more painful death. But it did not go as far as that, thank God!
for the troop which was taking them along was attacked by another
tribe, which held with the English, and they were killed to the last
man. So my aunt, after a couple of months, came again, robbed of her
stalwart sons, with her husband, whose mind has never since been quite
right, and who has lived on for months and years without uttering a
word, though attending to his work like anyone else."

Lambert ceased speaking. Catherine took his hand and, with gentle
pressure, held it.

So they went, hand in hand, along the creek. Here and there a pair of
summer-ducks came out of the reeds and flew, swift as an arrow, toward
the woods. Fish sprang up in the crystal-clear water. The rushes waved.
The flowers and grass on the prairie swayed in the tepid wind. The sun
poured down its golden rays. But it seemed to both as if there had
fallen a veil over the clear, spring morning.

"I wish I had not told you this--at least not today," said Lambert.

"And I thank you that you did so," said Catherine. "The happiness would
be too great were our good fortune without a shadow. Did you not find
me helpless, forsaken, poor as a beggar, pressed to the ground by care
and grief, and did you not, without a moment's hesitation, stretch out
your hand to pick me out of the dust? So I will hold it fast--your dear
hand--and help you carry the cares and burdens of life, and with you go
into the battle, if it must be, as good Aunt Ditmar did, whom may God
bless for her bravery, and whose pardon I heartily beg for the injury I
did her in my feelings. Now I can see why she who has suffered so
dreadfully cannot, like other good people, heartily rejoice over the
good fortune which comes to them before her eyes. Poor soul! She no
longer believes in good fortune."

"Perhaps it is also something else," said Lambert thoughtfully, and
after a short pause proceeded: "See, Catherine, I love you so dearly,
and have kept still so long, that I would like to tell you about
everything that passes through my mind. So I will also tell you this: I
do not know, but I believe that my aunt would be better pleased were
Conrad in my place. She has not forgotten that she carried the
youngster, when a small and helpless creature, in her arms, and has
always loved him as though she were his own mother. So Conrad has also
hung to her; and, on account of the Ditmars, the difficulty arose
between him and our father. Conrad wanted to go and live at Ditmar's,
and father forbid it to the eleven-year-old youngster. The very Indian
tribe to which Conrad fled had rescued the Ditmars. I believe he was
himself present, though I do not know, since he has never said a word
about it; nor has aunt, to whom he may have forbidden it. All this aunt
has never forgotten."

"And shall not forget it," observed Catherine with animation. "See,
Lambert, now that we have honorably acknowledged that we love one
another, I am no longer so timid. We must now be equally honest toward
the others. Your aunt knows it, you say, and she will adapt herself to
the actual state of affairs. Conrad must also know it, and then he
won't be angry at you any longer. It perhaps sounds a little bold, but
if I am indeed pleasing to him, let me manage it, Lambert. I will tame
the young bear for you."

Lambert shook his head, and had again to laugh as he now looked into
the face of the beloved one, which beamed with happiness as before.
"Yes, yes, who could withstand you? Who would not willingly do what you
wish?"

They had reached the block-house, and entered the open door. Lambert
looked about the room with as much wonder as though he now saw it for
the first time. About the hearth, on the shelves, there hung and stood
kettles, pitchers and pots clean and burnished. They had heretofore
always been in confusion. On the hearth itself the live coals glimmered
under the ashes, and only needed to be uncovered and fanned again to
start the fire. Near by lay the fire-wood carefully piled up. The table
was brightly scoured. The chairs were set in order. The floor was
sprinkled with white sand. The hunting and fishing apparatus neatly
hung against the wall. The small mirror which, dusty and dull, had
hitherto leaned in a dark corner, had found a suitable place between
the silhouettes of his parents, while they were encircled with simple
garlands.

"You best one!" said Lambert, as with deep emotion he locked the
beloved one in his arms. "You will prove the good angel of us all."

"To that may God help me!" ejaculated Catherine. "And now, Lambert, we
must think about the obligations resting on us. While you go and feed
Hans, I will prepare our noonday meal. After dinner we will start, for
I suppose you mean to take me along. Now, no more talking; we have
already trifled away too much time."

She drove out the beloved one with kisses and scolding, and then turned
to her work, which she pushed forward in a lively manner, though she
often pressed her hand on her heart, which it seemed would burst with
sheer happiness. Wherever she looked, she, in imagination, saw the form
of her beloved--the true, good, thoughtful eyes; the face embrowned by
exposure, with its handsome, clear expression; the powerful frame,
which moved with such calm assurance. In the crackling of the fire; in
the measured tick-tack of the old Swartzwald clock, she seemed ever to
hear his deep, friendly voice; and she mentally recalled the words he
had said to her, and trembled with pleasure as she thought how her name
rang out from his lips: "Catherine!" So she had always been called. Her
father, friends, neighbors, all the world had called her Catherine, and
yet it seemed as though to-day she had heard it for the first time.

Oh! everything had turned out so different and so much better than she
had dared to hope. How doubtingly she had looked toward the land with
fixed eyes, which had already learned to weep on the torture-ship. What
more could it bring her besides terrible, inconceivable misery? How
unhappy she had yesterday felt on her arrival, and again this morning.
Could she then now be in reality happy, so very happy that her dear,
dead father, were he still living, could wish for her nothing
better--nothing more desirable?

Catherine bowed her head and folded her hands in prayer, and then
looked up with brightened glances.

"Yes," said she softly, "he would have blessed our engagement with his
fatherly, priestly blessing. I can call myself his before men, as I am
before God and in my own heart. And though I have no friend, male or
female, to rejoice with us and to wish us joy, I am on that account
none the less his and he mine. But I will make friends of the whole
world--the strange old aunt and the wild Conrad. I am no longer afraid
of anybody--of anything."

So spoke Catherine to herself as she was setting the table, and yet she
was badly scared as, at that moment, she heard the stamping of a horse
before the house, and a loud human voice calling:

"He, holla! Lambert Sternberg!"

Trembling, she laid down the plates and stepped to the door to see the
caller, who again and again screamed: "Lambert Sternberg! He, holla,
Lambert Sternberg!"




                              CHAPTER VII


Before the house, on a long-limbed, lean horse, whose panting flanks
and hanging head showed that he had just completed a long and rapid
trip, a young man had stopped. On Catherine's appearance he forgot to
shut the large mouth which he had opened in calling. His long, flaxen
hair hung down in strands from under his large, three-cornered hat upon
his narrow shoulders. The sweat poured from his freckled, saturated,
long face, and his dull, water-blue eyes had a frightened look as
Catherine, aghast, called out:

"For God's sake, what has happened?"

"Where is he?" stammered he on the horse, and turned his eyes in every
direction.

"You are looking for Lambert Sternberg?" asked Catherine.

The rider bowed.

"I will call him. Dismount and rest yourself a moment. I will soon be
back," said Catherine.

The rider did as the young girl had told him, climbed in a tired way
out of the high saddle, and tied his horse to the iron ring. As
Catherine turned to go, Lambert came around the house. He was leading
Hans by the halter, and called out:

"God bless you, Adam Bellinger! What brings you here?"

"The French are here!" replied Adam.

Lambert started, and looked quickly toward Catherine, who on her part
kept her large, questioning eyes fixed on him.

"What does that mean?" asked Lambert. "Where are they? What do you
know, Adam? By the thousand, man, speak!"

"I know nothing," said Adam. "My father sent me."

"What for? What is to be done?"

"I was in the field." said Adam, "when my father came running up,
saying that I must unharness and saddle the mare; that Herkimer had
been there; that the French were on the march; and that I should
report it everywhere, and that this afternoon all should come to his
house to consult as to what was to be done."

"Then it cannot be so very bad," said Lambert, breathing more freely.
"Herkimer is a man of sense, and would not ask us to come to his house
if there was very pressing danger to our own homes. But how did you
learn that I had returned?"

"I was at Aunt Ursul's, who sent me here to tell you that she was going
to the meeting, and that if you should not wish to leave the young
lady, who may indeed be your bride, alone, you should take her along
and leave her at Eisenlord's on the way, or at Voltz', where the women
intend to remain at home, or at our house."

"It is well," said Lambert, as he took the hand of Catherine, standing
by him still and pale. "Now come in, Adam Bellinger, and take a bite
and a drink. You appear to need it, and the poor beast too. We will be
ready in ten minutes."

Lambert shoved up the movable crib, while Catherine went into the house
and brought out a loaf of bread which Adam cut in pieces for his horse.
Then they all went in and sat down to the hastily prepared meal, to
which Adam addressed himself so earnestly that he had little time to
answer Lambert's many questions.

Catherine learned enough, as she silently listened, to form a
conception of the real situation. She had often heard Lambert speak of
Nicolas Herkimer, one of the richest and noblest German settlers, who
owned a large farm and a castle-like house on the Mohawk, at the mouth
of Canada Creek. The year before, during Belletre's raid, he had been
of great service to the settlements. The governor had given him a
captain's commission, and had intrusted him, for the future, with the
defense of the neighboring German districts.

"He will already have formed his plans," said Lambert. "We on the creek
will doubtless have to look out for ourselves, we are pushed ahead so
far. There shall be nothing lacking with us, though I did not expect to
have the murdering incendiaries here so soon again."

Out of Lambert's entire being spoke the settled courage of a man who
well knew the threatened danger, but was resolved to defy it, come what
would. His eyes sought Catherine's, who went quietly back and forth
serving the men, and whose large, glistening eyes said: "You see,
beloved, I am, like you, quiet and self-contained."

Adam seemed to have forgotten all his fear, while engaged in eating and
drinking. He looked up at Catherine, when she filled his plate for the
second time, bowing with a friendly grin. At last he slowly laid down
his knife and fork and looked about him contentedly, as though he would
say: "One sits here a good deal more comfortably than in the cursed
high saddle of the mare, who threw me at every step from one side to
the other."

"Are you ready, Adam?" asked Lambert, who had risen and had hung about
him his rifle.

"Indeed," replied Adam, "but hardly the mare. The poor beast is not
accustomed to anything like this."

"I will water her, and saddle Hans," said Lambert.

Catherine followed him to the door. Lambert caught her hand and said:
"Catherine, I thank you, I thank you with my whole heart. I now know
that I need cast no more reproaches on myself."

"You should not have cast any," said Catherine. "Your affairs are mine
Your fate is mine. I live and die with you."

"And so will I give every drop of my blood for you," said Lambert, "but
I hope to God that there are yet many good days appointed us. It cannot
for the present have much significance. Conrad, who was up there for a
week, and in the region from which they must come, surely knows more
about our enemies than anyone else; and he told me that there is at
least no immediate danger."

"So I think, too," said Catherine, "and for that reason I will ask a
favor of you, Lambert. You have on my account slightly neglected your
duty. Had you returned alone you would yesterday already have seen and
spoken with your friends, for you would have taken the road through the
valley instead of through the woods. To-day it is fortunate that your
friend Adam has found us, for you might easily have failed to be where
you belong. This is not right, and lies heavy on my mind. Now you have
a long ride. I know well that Hans can carry us both, but he will go
better if you alone ride him. And then what would be the result should
everyone, on such an occasion, drag his wife with him? The others also
stay at home. You will leave me here, Lambert. Is it not so?"

"Now it is getting to be time," said Adam Bellinger, coming out of the
door.

Lambert stood irresolute. He saw no danger in leaving Catherine alone,
but it was very trying for him to separate himself from her just at
this time.

"Conrad may come back to his dinner and find the house deserted. Surely
it is better, Lambert, that I stay here."

"Well, as you will," said Lambert.

He again unbuckled the pillion that he had put upon Hans.

"Does not the maiden go along?" asked Adam, who was already mounted.

Lambert did not answer.

"Well then, good-bye, young lady; and best thanks. Hot! Mare!"

He turned his horse, which left the crib unwillingly.

Catherine flew into Lambert's arms.

"May you live happy, beloved. I hope you are not displeased with me?"

"With you?"

His lips trembled. Silently he pressed Catherine to his breast; then
with a mighty effort he tore himself away, swung himself upon Hans,
galloped after his companion, who was trotting ahead on his long-limbed
horse, and at every step of the animal flew up in the air, while his
sharp elbows moved up and down like wings.




                              CHAPTER VIII


Lambert soon overtook the awkward rider. The two young men trotted on
for a time side by side without speaking, until suddenly the mare,
panting, stood still. Adam, having thus been thrown upon the neck of
the beast, remarked that the mare was a very intelligent creature, and
well knew that it was impossible for her to keep going at such a gait;
that in such a case she always stopped to give the rider time for
reflection; and that he had always found that one also finally reaches
his destination by going on a walk, and that far easier.

"But also so much later," said Lambert, impatiently. "If you are
absolutely unable to keep up with me I must leave you and ride on
ahead."

"For God's sake!" cried Adam, and thrust his heels so forcibly into the
sides of the mare that she sprang forward, and again fell into a trot.
"For God's sake! that will soon fail."

"You are a coward," said Lambert, "in that you are put to the blush by
a girl."

He turned back in the saddle toward the blockhouse before it should
disappear from his sight behind the forest-encompassed, rocky hill
around which they were winding. Catherine had not left her place in
front of the door. Though uncertain whether she could see the
salutation he waved his hand to her, and then the rocks hid her from
his sight.

An indescribable sadness fell upon Lambert and it did not lack much but
he would have turned Hans about and gone back at full speed. But with a
strong determination he overcame his painful emotion. "I am just as
great a coward," said he to himself, "and even a greater one, for I
know better about what is going on, and nothing that I do for her
should be burdensome to me."

"You may well talk," Adam broke in upon Lambert's self-communings.

"Why?" asked Lambert.

"Should they pull the scalp from over your ears no rooster would crow
after that; but my mother would weep her eyes out."

"Perhaps there may be somebody who would rather see my scalp on my head
than on an Indian's girdle."

"Do you mean the young lady?" asked Adam, opening his mouth from ear to
ear, and for a moment letting go of the horn of the saddle, and
pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Perhaps," said Lambert.

"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Adam, in a comforting tone.
"Then I will marry her. It is already a long time since mother wanted
me to marry. But you know I would not take just anybody. The girl
pleases me."

"So!" said Lambert.

"Yes," said Adam. "Barbara and Gussie and Annie would doubtless at
first cry a little, but that would come right in time. I believe that
Fritz and August Volz are already engaged to Barbara and Gussie, and we
have always thought that you would marry Annie."

"With or without a scalp?" asked Lambert.

Adam thought this such a capital joke that he stopped the mare to
press his fists into his sides and break out in ringing laughter. A
fish-hawk, which had plunged into the creek among the reeds, flew away
frightened, while his warning voice rang out.

"My God!" said Adam, "I really thought it was already one of the mean
French, or red-skins."

"Have you during this time of terror heard of them?" asked Lambert as
they were riding along.

"Once," said Adam, "about a month ago. Father went to Schenectady with
the wheat, and I was alone in the field, when little Anton came running
and cried out: 'The Indians have swum across the creek and are at our
house.' Fear so flew into my legs that I did not know where my head
stood, and I wanted to go right home to help the women. But when I
again got my breath I was standing before Eisenlord's door. The old man
was at home, and at once sent his youngest son to Peter Volz', whence
soon there came the old man himself and Fritz and August. Then we went
courageously forward, though the crying women did not want us to go. On
the way Christian Eisenlord and young Peter Volz joined us, so that we
were six or seven, although apparently there could not much reliance be
placed on me, since I almost cried my eyes out from pity and heartache
that I should now find our house burned down, and my beautiful Bless
and the four English hogs, that I had just that morning bought of John
Martens, driven away, and mother and Barbara and Gussie and Annie
scalped. But as we came out of the woods, through which we had
carefully skulked, there stood our house undisturbed; and the women
were standing before the door scolding little Anton, who was crying
bitterly."

"How about the Indians?" asked Lambert.

"You must not interrupt me, if I am to tell my story in an orderly
way," said Adam. "Where was I?"

"At Anton, who was crying bitterly."

"The poor boy!" said Adam. "I could not blame him. He should have gone
in and covered the Indian--who was about naked, so that the women were
ashamed."

"Then there really was one there?"

"Yes, indeed; and he had swum through the creek, and lay on the hearth
as drunk as a red-skin can be, and snored so that we could hear him
outdoors. Then the others had a good laugh at my expense, and, since,
they have constantly jeered me about the drunken fellow, though one
should not paint the devil on the wall. I indeed could do nothing about
it. But little Anton should have been wiser. On account of what took
place then, they would not believe my message to-day; and had I not
said and sworn that Herkimer himself had told my father, they would
have remained at home, except Aunt Ursul, who immediately saddled both
her horses."

"So! Has uncle also gone along?" asked Lambert.

"We shall soon know," said Adam. "I will call." They stopped before the
Ditmar house. Adam rose in his stirrups, put both hands to his mouth
and screamed so loud that the doves on the roof were frightened, and
Melac, the watch-dog, in the yard, began to bark and howl fearfully.
"He, holla! Christian Ditmar! holla, he!" However the long figure of
old Ditmar did not appear at the upper-half of the door, through which
one could see the interior.

Lambert thought best to go right on and not call at William Teichert's.
His farm lay somewhat to one side, at the edge of the woods which here
bore back from the creek in a great bend and came back to it again near
Peter Volz' yard. Here indeed they had to stop, for mother Volz had
seen the riders from a distance, and stood before the door with a
pitcher of home-brewed beer in each hand, which Peter, her youngest
son, had just drawn fresh from the barrel. Mother Volz was much
excited, and great tears rolled over her big cheeks as she handed the
pitchers to the riders, at the same time scolding the French and her
Peter, who would go to the meeting and leave her--an old, helpless
woman--alone, the good-for-nothing!

"If I am good for nothing," said Peter, "I cannot help you, mother. But
I must always stay at home and play the baby; that is just as it is."

"Yes, that is the case," said Adam, smacking his lips forcibly over his
beer, "and the rest of us must have a hard time of it."

"Then give me the mare and you stay here," said the courageous Peter.

Adam was not disinclined to accept so agreeable an offer, and began to
climb out of the saddle when the mare, perhaps misunderstanding the
motion of the rider, or because she perceived that she was near her own
stable, suddenly started on a trot, to Adam's disappointment and
Lambert's satisfaction, whose impatience at the unnecessary loitering
had become very great.

Now, however, thanks to the mare's fixed purpose to end her unusual
labor for the day, without stopping, she went on faster and faster--so
that Adam held convulsively to the horn of the saddle, while his long,
yellow hair flew about his ears--on along the creek, past John
Eisenlord's house, where the women hastened to the door, and called,
and wondering looked after those who were rushing past. Thus they went
faster and faster until the mare stopped in Bellinger's yard with a
jerk and threw her rider over her head in the sand at the feet of his
mother and three sisters and younger brother. His mother called out:

"Run, little Anton! and open the stable for the mare, so that she does
not crush her skull against the door--the poor beast!"

No one felt concerned for Adam. In fact, this was the usual way in
which the mare, after such a trip, returned her rider. He soon got up
and rubbed his long legs groaning, while the women surrounded Lambert
and inquired about his journey; when he got back; and why in the
world he yesterday took the rough road through the woods? how his
maid-servant behaved? and why he had brought one from a distance of
fifty miles, when he could easily have found one--and perhaps a better
one--near by?

Lambert briefly thanked them for their kind inquiries, ascertained how
long since the men had gone, spurred his horse and, with a brief
salutation, trotted away, thus filling the beautiful blonde Annie with
not a little anxiety, and compelling her to listen to the remarks of
her sisters, Barbara and Gussie:

"Now one can clearly see, what we always thought, that Lambert
Sternberg did not take that long journey to New York on account of the
pines."

Annie replied that she cared nothing for Lambert, and that Fritz and
August Volz had also not yet declared themselves. The mother took
Annie's part, and the dispute threatened to become serious, when it
happily occurred to them that they had not once asked Adam what sort of
a person the new girl was.

They now learned from the keen rider, who had gone into the house and
was rubbing his shins with brandy, that, in no case was Lambert to have
her, but that he himself was to marry the girl as soon as the Indians
had taken Lambert's scalp, and that he and Lambert had come to a
complete agreement on that matter.

While Catherine's fate was thus discussed in the Bellinger family,
Lambert pushed along on a fast trot to regain lost time. He had
gathered from the questions of the women, and still more from the tone
in which they were put, that the way in which he had dealt was not
thought favorably of. He was yesterday persuaded of this, and to escape
this neighborhood interference he had taken the road through the woods.
He felt grieved and angry at his aunt, who alone could have spread
abroad the knowledge of his return and his relation to Catherine. Still
he said to himself that, since all must shortly know it, it was best
they should know it as soon as possible. He saw how difficult his
position in the community would be--as indeed it should be--so long as
Catherine was not his wife; possibly even after that; that, at all
events, it was his duty to make his relation to Catherine clear to all
eyes. He determined yet to-day, should opportunity offer, to speak to
the minister and to seek the advice and help of that excellent man.

He had now come out of what was properly the valley of the creek, near
its mouth. Toward the right of him lay the broad German Flats, in the
fork between the creek and the Mohawk. The land, long rescued from the
primitive forest, was rich, and there were unbroken lines of successive
settlements, with a small church and a parsonage in the midst on a
hill. Before him, on the other side of the Mohawk, whose clear waters
glanced between its bushy shores, there stood out also on a hill, what
looked like a small fortification. This, the purposed end of his
journey, was Nicolas Herkimer's stately house.

He now discovered that, as he had feared, he would not be the last one
to arrive. In the even reaches between corn-fields and bushes those
coming on foot or on horseback singly, or by twos, or threes, from
different directions, could be seen, all moving toward one point. There
was a house conveniently situated on this side of the river, diagonally
across from Herkimer's farm, where Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, lived.

Here, a few minutes afterward, Lambert met the men whom he had from a
distance seen coming. By them he was greeted very cordially, as though
all had heard of his journey to New York, but not of his return. They
wanted to know how the matters had resulted and especially what he had
heard in the city about the war in Europe; whether the French had
really, the year before at Roszbach, been so helplessly slaughtered,
and whether the king of Prussia was this year going to take the field
against his countless enemies.

Lambert told them what he knew, and on his part sought information
about things at home. Of the five or six men who thus happened to meet,
each gave his impressions as best he could, from which it appeared that
there were nearly as many different opinions as there were men, in the
small gathering. Yes, while they were eagerly attacking Hans
Haberkorn's rum, they became so warm that they seemed to have forgotten
why they were there, until Lambert's urgency induced them to go on.

Hans Haberkorn thought there was no hurry and that they could just as
well consult here as at Herkimer's. The rest, however, would not stay
behind. They tied their horses in a row, under an open shed, to the
manger, and went upon the river; and on the short passage across
renewed their debate with increased earnestness, so that it did not
lack much of going from words to blows on the small scow.

On this account it was fortunate that, as they landed on the other
side, others joined them, of whom some had crossed before, while
others, coming from the other side, awaited the landing of the
ferry-boat so that they could go on together. Over the greeting they
for the moment forgot their contention, but they had proceeded but a
few steps before the war of words began again as before, while those
who came up afterward mingled in the crowd and took part on one or the
other side. So, scolding and quarreling, they reached the front yard of
Herkimer's house.




                               CHAPTER IX


There might have been a hundred who were here assembled, all German
settlers from the Mohawk, from the creek, and some even from Schoharie,
for that far had the circumspect Herkimer sent his message. In the
tall, often giant-like men, who sat in long rows on the benches under
the projecting roof of the house, in the shade, or moved about on the
open, sunny lawn, nobody would have recognized the descendants of the
pale and emaciated immigrants who, in their time, landed in the harbor
of New York and of Philadelphia from pest-ships, in an inhospitable
country. So thought Lambert, as he cast his eye over the assembly and
looked at those nearer, whom he knew and soon singled out. There was
first the distinguished form of Nicolas Herkimer himself, with broad
shoulders, on which the long, grayish hair fell, and the clear, blue
eyes, which to-day appeared brighter and more thoughtful than usual as
he spoke with one and another, and then again looked at the position of
the sun to see whether the hour appointed for the meeting had come.
There was the minister Rosenkrantz, with his kind, friendly face as
storm-tried and weather-browned as that of any of his people, from whom
he was distinguished only by his black clothes and his large snuff-box,
which he was constantly turning about in his fingers. There were his
neighbors, the Volzes, and the Eisenlords, father and sons, and William
Teichert, and old Adam Bellinger; and at last he also discovered, at
the farthest corner, his uncle, Christian Ditmar, still as ever and
brooding with his fur cap drawn far down over his face. Lambert was
trying to press through to the old man, as Richard, Herkimer's youngest
son, of the same age as Conrad, and a dear friend of both brothers,
touched his shoulder.

"God bless you, Lambert! You have come back at the right time, I should
say. Where is your brother?"

Lambert informed him that this morning Conrad went hunting, and had not
yet returned when he himself left home.

"This will be very unpleasant news for father," said Richard. "He has
already asked a couple of times for both of you. There he comes
himself. I will afterward talk with you, Lambert."

It was painful enough for Lambert that he was obliged to give the same
information to the honored man who so heartily welcomed him. "I knew it
already from your aunt," said Herkimer, "but I hoped that he had
meanwhile come. It is very unpleasant that he fails us. I hear that he
has been for eight days at the lake, and surely knows more about the
movements of our enemies than any one of us. To be sure I have on the
whole been well informed, but it would be desirable to have some one on
whom I could call. What did he tell you?"

"Only this," replied Lambert, and then told Herkimer the little he had
learned from Conrad; that the Onondaga Indians were assembled in large
number, and that it was Conrad's impression that it was not for a good
purpose.

"That agrees altogether with my other reports," said Nicolas Herkimer.
"These rascals have already for a long time played false, and we shall
doubtless soon have them on our necks. Listen, Lambert; I have thought
of placing you in an important position, and before we enter upon our
consultation I wish to come to an understanding with you. Mr.
Rosenkrantz, a moment."

The preacher drew near and heartily greeted Lambert, and began at once
to ask about his journey, but Herkimer quickly interrupted the
talkative minister.

"That will do as well later, dominie," said he, "we have now something
more important to think of. I wish to explain our plan to Lambert, on
whom we can rely in any event. This, Lambert, is our plan: After our
losses of last year we are, in any case, too weak for open warfare
against an enemy far exceeding us in number and able to choose his own
time and place for attack. The only thing left for us to do is, by
constant and regular scouting, as well as possible to learn his
movements, so that, before an actual attack follows, we can retire to
our fortified points. One of these naturally is the fort, which is in a
good, defensible condition. The second is my house. For this I stand,
and this they did not even venture to attack last year. About the third
I will soon speak with you. In addition to this, so that all may be
informed as soon as possible, we will establish signals up the river
and away from it. For this purpose we must form small squads of
troopers which can be rapidly concentrated at threatened points and
occupy the enemy until wives and children have accomplished their
flight. Cattle, and what else can be concealed, we must secure
beforehand. Now, as to what concerns you: It is most likely that this
time they will select the creek for attack. They passed by you last
year, hence they will hope to find the more with you. And then they
know--or believe--that here on the Mohawk we are better prepared and
more fully informed than you. The last is probably the case. You live
so far off that you could not, upon being pursued, have much prospect
of reaching either here or the fort; and for the same reason, we could
as little help you. Your father, who was an intelligent man, understood
this well, and so strengthened your house that it could for a short
time be held by a few well-protected men, furnished with ample
provisions and ammunition, against a large troop. On this I have built
my plan. You are a good rifleman, and your brother Conrad is the best
in the colony. You are both courageous, resolute men, and you have got
to carry your own hide to market, which speaks for itself in such
circumstances. I will give you two or three men, whom you may yourself
select, and it will then be your business to protect yourselves and
your neighbors--such as the Ditmars, Teicherts and perhaps also
Volzes--who can reach you--Eisenlords and Bellingers are nearer
here--until we are in a condition to bring help. I need not tell you,
Lambert, upon how responsible and dangerous a post I place you. On your
watchfulness hangs not only the life of your neighbors, but perhaps
also the fate of all of us about here. On the other hand it may happen
that we, with the help of soldiers from Albany, cannot ourselves resist
the enemy, and so can either not help you at all, or not at the right
time. Will you, Lambert Sternberg, undertake the charge?"

"I will," said Lambert.

Nicolas Herkimer shook hands with him heartily, and turned to other
groups. The minister, who had listened, eagerly twisting his small
clothes, and often bowing his head, now reached out his hand to Lambert
and said:

"You have not undertaken a small matter, dear young man. May God help
you!"

"Amen! honored sir," replied Lambert. "I need your help perhaps more
than you are aware of. I came here to make to you a communication, if
opportunity offered, highly important to myself, and to ask your
advice. Will you listen to me a few minutes? I will try to be brief."

"Speak," said the minister, "though I think I already know what you
wish to say."

Lambert looked inquiringly at the minister.

"My dear friend, your Aunt Ditmar has already told me something which I
have interpreted according to the disposition of young people. But say
on."

Lambert now told the worthy man the history of his love for Catherine
from the first moment when he saw her on the deck of the ship to that
hour, and at last made known his earnest wish that he might, before all
the world, call her his wife.

"I understand, I understand," said the minister, who had been all ears;
"yes, yes; for this you may well wish, both on the girl's account and
your own; yes, also on account of Conrad, who otherwise might deal some
silly blows."

"And so," said Lambert, "as the danger is threatening, I wish as soon
as possible to be united to Catherine forever."

"Forever!" said the minister earnestly. "This I also fully understand.
Also short and well, dear young friend, I will gladly serve you, as it
is my office and my heartfelt wish. We cannot here always observe the
forms prescribed by the church, but God sees the heart. So I think
to-morrow, satisfied with a single proclamation of the bans, we will
attend to the marriage immediately after public worship. Are you
satisfied with that? Good; and then I must ask you yet one thing, viz.:
That you this evening take the lady to whom you are engaged to your
Aunt Ditmar's and leave her there until to-morrow, and from there bring
her to the wedding. I repeat, God looks at the heart, but appearances
sway our judgment, and so for the people's sake I wish you would follow
my advice."

"I will gladly do it, worthy sir," said Lambert. "I will at once speak
to my aunt about it."

"There she comes now," said the minister.

Aunt Ursul had been actively helping Herkimer's women in the house,
which the labor of entertaining so many guests at once made necessary.
She now declared that, with her consent, not another pitcher of beer or
glass of rum should be furnished. "I know my people, and if anything is
to come out of the consultation, you must begin now, for an hour hence
you might as well preach reason to horses. Say this to Herkimer,
dominie. I will look after my old man. You are welcome to go with me,
Lambert. He has already asked about you--something that he doesn't do
every day. But the French you know bring him into harness. He is to-day
quite changed."

Lambert went to his uncle with his aunt, but could not discover any
change in him. The old man kept sitting in the same corner on the
bench, the fur cap drawn far down on his forehead. His sunken head was
scarcely raised in returning Lambert's salutation with a silent nod.
However, the otherwise half-closed eyes looked for a moment from under
the heavy eyebrows in a peculiar glance, but his thoughts must have
wandered far away. He appeared not to hear what Lambert said to him.

"Only let him be," said Aunt Ursul; "he now has other things in his
head, and for us it is high time that we at last come to the business.
It will likely go like a mixture of cabbage and turnips."

Aunt Ursul appeared to be right. The noise kept increasing. They went
around with pitchers and flasks in their hands, and drank to one
another, and talked and screamed at each other, till suddenly first one
then another shouted: "Still!" "Quiet!" Now the well-known form of the
minister appeared, as they crowded through one another. He had climbed
on a table and stood there. He had quit turning his snuff-box about in
his fingers and waited until they should be ready to listen to him.
"Still!" "Quiet!" sounded forth more authoritatively than before. But
quiet was not forthcoming. In certain distant groups the loud talking
continued, and a coarse voice cried: "What does the dominie want?"

"What I want," called the minister, "I will soon tell you. I beg you,
back there, that you will at length keep your mouths shut and bring
your wisdom, if you have any, to market at the right time and to the
right place."

The rough word awakened laughter everywhere, but after the laughter it
became still.

The minister slipped the snuff-box into his pocket, took off his large
three-cornered hat, shoved back the much-used, short wig and thus
proceeded:

"I wish with you all to call upon the Lord, and beseech Him that this
time the cup, which we emptied last year to the last bitter dregs, the
taste of which still lies on our tongues, may graciously pass from us;
and if in His incomprehensible wisdom he has decreed that it shall not
be so, and that He will again try our hearts and reins, that then, in
His grace, He will give us strength to endure the severe trial like
brave men who know that the good God, in spite of all and everything,
does not forsake him who does not forsake himself, and helps him who
helps himself. This, dear friends and countrymen, is a word which has
been profitable in many ways and at many times, but never and for no
one more than for us at this time. Who will deliver us out of our
distress and danger here, on the utmost border of the earth, occupied
by people of our race, where surrounding enemies lurk and go about to
destroy us, but God and ourselves? And with God's help we will save
ourselves--of this I am fully convinced--if we keep His commandment
which reads: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' Since if we, as
it becomes neighbors, stand beside each other, shoulder to shoulder,
with one mind and one heart, and full of the same courage in danger,
distress and death, then and only then, dear friends, shall we overcome
the danger and deliver ourselves from the distress, and die, should
death meet us, as brave men, discharging our highest duty as men and
Christians. And now, dear friends, after having said what I, as a
servant of the Word of God and a man of peace, wished to say, from a
full and loving heart, I thank you that you have listened to me
attentively. Will you not with equal attention listen to the man whom
we all know and honor, an honest farmer like yourselves, and in
addition a brave soldier. May the Lord bless him so that he may give
you good advice; and may the Lord bless you so that you may take
advice; and may He protect us all and let the light of His countenance
fall upon us and give us peace. Amen."

The earnest words of the minister, who spoke--especially toward the
last--with a deeply moved voice, did not entirely fail of their effect.
An approving murmur ran here and there through the assembly. But the
voice of the speaker had scarcely ceased and his form disappeared from
the table when again, though not as loud as before, some voices were
raised asking what was the object of the talk? whether they had come
here to hear a sermon?

"Talking costs no money and the minister can talk well. He was last
year one of the first to run for the fort, and left the rest to their
fate, but truly it is well not to be before a gun when it is fired
off."

So here and there spake those who were dissatisfied. Others said they
should be ashamed to say such things about so excellent a man. Others
called: "Quiet! don't you see that Herkimer wants to speak?"

So at last Nicolas Herkimer, who had already stood on the table a few
minutes and let his keen, earnest eyes pass over the assembly, raised
his voice. He spoke long and impressively. He unfolded in every
particular the plan which he had, in its chief parts, before told
Lambert. In it he had thought of everything, remembered everything, and
reduced to its smallest compass the threatened danger that could be
avoided.

"That is what I have to say," he concluded. "Now it is for you to test
my proposals. We are free men, and each one can in the end do what he
pleases, and carry his hide to market this way or that. But that we are
free does not forbid us to be united. On the other hand, only by being
united shall we preserve and protect our freedom. United we cannot be
and become, if you talk and cry out among each other as just now you
did, again. Whoever knows anything better than I, let him come here and
speak. Let him who does not, keep still and listen. And let us not
forget--what we tell our children--that he who will not hear must feel.
Who wishes to speak after me?"

"I!" "I!" called out a couple of dozen voices.

"You cannot all speak at once," said Herkimer with some bitterness; "so
you come here, Hans Haberkorn. You screamed the loudest."

Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, appeared beside Herkimer on the table.
The small, undersized, barefoot fellow who had, behind the bar
connected with his ferry, so often spoken large words and scolded his
rich neighbor on the other side of the river, could not let the
opportunity pass to tell the last speaker the truth--as he expressed
it--before all the world. He wanted to know whether it was honest and
neighborly in Nicolas Herkimer that he wanted three ferries at the same
time over the river within half a mile of each other, after it had been
promised him, Hans Haberkorn, that he should be the only ferryman on
this ground? That he on that account had settled on a piece of land
which consisted of moor and sand, and on which he would long since have
starved if he had not also a beer saloon. Now the two ferries should be
used only in urgent cases, and then again discontinued, or--what would
follow--let the wolf eat. It was absolutely certain that one ferry
without a beer saloon could not support itself. Both the other ferries
would want to set up beer saloons, and then it would be to him,
personally, the same whether the French came to-day or to-morrow and
killed him with his wife and children. For his part he would rather be
put to death at once than starve to death by degrees.

"Hans Haberkorn is right!" called out half a dozen voices.

"Shame on the good-for-nothing fellow who thinks only about himself!"
cried others, and pressed toward the table from which Hans Haberkorn
quickly jumped. The place he vacated was again occupied by big John
Mertens, who had a large farm on the moor between the Mohawk and the
creek, near the church, and by some was considered to be better off
than Herkimer himself. In any case one could always be sure that John
Mertens would oppose anything that Herkimer and the minister wanted, of
whom he observed that they always stuck under the same cover. With
this--his favorite expression--he began his discourse, saying: That one
might well know what to think of a plan that had been formed without
consulting him, John Mertens, who also had a word to say, having ten
head of cattle in the pasture more than people whom he would not name;
nor would he speak of the sheep and the English hogs which he had first
introduced; that every child knew that one could not bring sheep out of
a stable when the roof over their heads was afire; nor could one drive
fifty hogs away so fast that a lame Indian could not overtake them, not
to speak of a dozen who could run. They might think of John Mertens so
or so, but he is an honest fellow who does not hide his meaning behind
a bush. This was what he wanted to say--The discourse of the big farmer
was very confused, and was partly lost in the fat of his double chin;
but his adherents, of whom the number was not small, showed their
approbation with screams and yells. The opposite party did not fail to
pay back such an answer as was due. A dreadful tumult arose, which
Nicolas Herkimer's powerful voice could not overcome. It seemed as if
the consultation on whose issue the weal or woe of hundreds hung,
through the folly and conceit of a couple of dozen would end in empty
confusion and disorder.

Suddenly there stood beside Nicolas Herkimer a person, the mere sight
of whom, as with a blow, brought the boisterous assembly to order, as
though a dead man had become alive and wished to address them. The
giant-long, skeleton-lean form of Christian Ditmar, whose bony hands
were stretched apart as if in conjuration, while, from under the thick
fur cap the gray hair in disordered strands was whipped by the wind
about his ghost-like face, was awe-inspiring. Then he raised his voice,
which now shrieked frantically, and then again rung out like thunder,
and thus spoke:

"So is being fulfilled the Word of God: 'The sins of the fathers shall
be visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation.' Yes,
the sins of the fathers. You have quarreled with each other and raised
your arms against each other while French wolves are howling around the
German flock, and have worried and killed as their wicked hearts
desired. They murdered my parents and brothers and sisters. I saw it
with my own eyes. I saw too my parents' house go up in flames, and
our neighbors' houses burning, and the city became a ruin and an
ash-heap--the beautiful proud city on the Neckar. Among the ruins
wandered weeping wives looking among the ashes for the bones of
husbands and brothers, and cried: 'Woe!' 'Woe!' 'A deadly curse on you
hangmen and murdering incendiaries!'

"I, a weak boy, cried along with them: 'Woe! Woe! A curse upon you, you
hangmen, and murdering incendiaries!' After many years I came here, and
again found them, the mean French wolves, howling around the German
flock; and I disputed with the rest and separated from the others, and
went out with my wife and my sons to take vengeance on those who had
killed my parents and all my kindred. How did the vengeance look when
my four brave boys lay dead at their father's feet, each with a bullet
through his breast?"

Christian Ditmar was silent a few moments. He must suppress the sadness
that rose in his heart at these recollections. He then proceeded with
increasing emotion:

"And so you have suffered and bled, earlier and later, under the greedy
teeth. However I, who have suffered more than you all, I tell you that
I deserved it since I blindly followed the voice of my heart crying for
vengeance and did not hearken to the advice of more prudent men; and so
you have deservedly suffered, and will suffer, since you also will not
listen, you fools and madmen, and propose to separate as you came, the
one this way, the other that, by which the wolves will again have an
easy play. But then your own and your children's blood will rest on you
as my children's blood has come upon me. Here--!"

Christian Ditmar tore his fur cap from his head. A broad, fearful scar
ran like a stream of blood over the high forehead from one temple to
the other.

"Here!" he repeated, while with his forefinger he pointed to the track
of blood; "here! here!" He raised both hands to his head, and with a
dull cry that rang dreadfully through the silent assembly, he fell
helpless. Nicolas Herkimer caught him in his arms; but soon the old man
gathered himself up and, with Lambert's help, who quickly sprang to his
aid, descended from the table and walked slowly to the entrance into
the door-yard, supported by the strong arm of his wife and attended by
Lambert.

"Have you now heard?" said Aunt Ursul to the rest who crowded around,
helpful and eager. "Have you now heard, you straw-heads? Why do you
stand about here and gape? I can take care of my old man alone. Better
go and do what he has told you. You also stay here, Lambert, and when
you pass our house stop a moment. I wish to speak with you."

Lambert brought out the horses of his relatives from the long row of
those which were swinging their tails under the shed, and bridled them.
He now helped into the saddle his uncle, who had fallen back into his
former stupidity, and after his great excitement seemed to take no
farther part in the matter. Meanwhile Aunt Ursul had resolutely brought
a stool and from it mounted her horse. Lambert looked at the retreating
figures until they reached the ferry, where Hans Haberkorn's oldest
boy, in the absence of his father, attended to the service, and then
returned to the meeting, in which there now prevailed a very different
mood.

The appearance and words of Christian Ditmar had produced a powerful
effect. Everybody knew the witless Christian and his history, and that
he had been dumb since he had lost his sons, and his oldest friends
could no longer remember the sound of his voice. And now the dumb had
opened his mouth and had spoken fearful words, which cut to the heart
those who listened in dumb wonderment. Yes, yes; it was, if not a
miracle, at least a sign--a gray sign--well enough understood by the
superstitious. When men are silent stones will speak. They had not been
silent before--far otherwise--but they had not listened; they would now
listen; they wanted to hear Herkimer explain his views once more.

Nicolas Herkimer did so, and with a result far different from the
first. They now found that it must be altogether so, and not
otherwise--that better advice could not be given. Should the French
this time select Canada Creek as the first point of attack, as to all
appearance they would, it would be very bad for Lambert Sternberg and
the Ditmars and the Eisenlords and the rest. But it could not be
helped. When now Lambert appeared on the table and in a few plain words
said that he was proud to assume the existing responsibility, and that
he would hold out on his post to his last breath, and that he now
desired the young men who had a heart and a good rifle for the
undertaking, at once to go with him to-day; then August and Fritz Volz
and Christian Eisenlord, and half a dozen others, cried out: "I!" "I!"
with one voice, and pressing up joined the fighting band.

The leaders of the three cavalry squads were now selected. These were
to help those on and away from the Mohawk, and on the creek, as they
were fleeing to the forts. So also right men were quickly appointed for
the old ferry, and for the added new ones, and for the other important
posts which were yet to be provided for.

The excellent spirit which had seized the assembly made them unwilling
to hear any more quarreling and strife; and those who grumbled
secretly, such as Hans Haberkorn, John Mertens and others, thought it
better policy to lay aside their opposition for a more convenient time.

It was late in the afternoon when Nicolas Herkimer declared the
business finished, and asked the minister to close the meeting. The
minister put up his snuff-box, stepped on the table and spoke with a
loud voice which clearly indicated deep feeling, as follows:

"Dear neighbors and friends: I will not speak long, for you are in a
hurry to get home to your wives and children. I will only ask you with
me briefly to thank God that He has opened our hearts to the spirit of
brotherliness and love, and to beseech Him that He will keep awake in
us this spirit for the miserable days with which we are now threatened.
Then this open heart and this wakeful spirit will make our hands
strong, and we shall live in a strong tower, which is our God. And the
prince of this world, however terrible he may be, will accomplish
nothing against the eternal God in heaven, who will not leave His brave
Germans. And now, dear neighbors and friends, go home, and keep your
eyes stiff and your powder dry. To-morrow, as may happen, if you have
more to do and cannot come to church, no damage will be done. God give
us all a happy reunion. Amen."

"Amen!" "Amen!" sounded forth everywhere in the circle of men, among
whom there were none who had not found for the moment a deep and holy
earnestness. They had assembled in disputation and quarreling. They
separated in peace and harmony. Most of them at their departure went to
shake hands with Nicolas Herkimer, and specially assured him that he
could in any case rely on them. The honor of a pinch of snuff from the
minister was sought by so many that the noble man could at last,
laughing, only present the empty box. The young people who desired to
be placed on the most dangerous post, had gathered about Lambert, and
it required Herkimer's authority to settle the choice. Lambert had
declared that he could not accept more than four, since he himself and
Conrad must also be added, making six good rifles for the protection of
the house. A larger number would unnecessarily consume food and
ammunition in case they had to stand a siege. So then, to grieve no
one, the lot should determine, and it fell on Fritz Volz, from the
creek; Jacob Ehrlich and Anthony Bierman, from the Mohawk; and on
Richard Herkimer. Lambert was satisfied with the issue. They were, on
the whole, wide-awake young men--at least Fritz Volz and Richard
Herkimer, his special friends. They agreed that the last two, who lived
near enough, should occupy the post yet this evening, and that the two
others should come early in the morning.

Now at last, after about all who had been assembled had gone, could
Lambert leave Nicolas Herkimer, who said: "I will keep you no longer
now. I will ride over to-morrow, as there are yet many things about
which I want to talk to you." Lambert had not improperly pressed to go.
As he reached the other side he found the Eisenlords, the Teicherts and
a dozen others who all, with a glass of Hans Haberkorn's genuine, were
discussing what they had heard and decided upon. He shook hands with
them and hastened on, Fritz Volz calling after him that he would see
him in the evening. As now he gave loose rein to his horse he cast an
anxious, inquiring glance at the sky, in which the sun had nearly run
its course. It was perhaps yet half an hour to its setting. On his left
the level fields and marshes shimmered and glimmered in red, blended
lights, so that he could hardly distinguish the shingled roofs of the
houses; and the forms of riders and footmen appeared now and then as
dark points in the sea of fire. To the right, where the farther he went
the nearer did the hills and rocks press toward him, the mighty trunks
of the giant pines glowed in dark purple, and their branching tops
blazed in green-golden flames to the cloudless sky. With every
hoof-beat of the horse the sun sunk deeper, and Lambert had just left
Bellinger's farm behind when the sea of fire to the left was
extinguished by a blue fog; and toward evening only the highest tops of
the tallest trees reflected the departing light of day. Night soon came
on. As his noble beast rapidly struck the grassy soil with strong hoofs
he saw that he could not reach home in less than an hour.

A nameless discontent seized him. The longing for the beloved one,
which he had so nobly fought all these hours, now asserted its rights,
and so filled his breast that he could hardly breathe. Minutes seemed
like hours. There was also another distressing feeling--a feeling of
fear for something he could not conceive of, for which he had no name,
and which may on that account have been more terrible. In all his life
he had never before had such an experience. Nearest to it were the
frightful dreams that had terrified him when a boy, from which he in
vain sought to wake. Lambert groaned aloud, and Hans groaned under the
pressure of the rider's legs.

So he rushed forward faster and faster, without looking to the right or
left, without stopping at Eisenlord's or at Volz', though everywhere
from the doors the women called to him: "Holla, Lambert, whither in
such haste?" until at last Hans, angry at the conduct of his otherwise
reasonable master, ran at full speed.

Aunt Ursul had requested him to stop on his return, and he himself
wished to speak with her about what the minister had said. So he
stopped his foaming horse unwillingly when he came to the Ditmar house.

"Is he near comfort.'" said Aunt Ursul who had heard him coming and now
stepped to the door. "The poor beast is like a cat which has been lying
eight days in the water. How you look yourself: Like the rider in the
book of Revelation."

"I feel as though some misfortune had happened there," stammered
Lambert, pointing homeward.

"Papperlapap!" said Aunt Ursul. "What can have happened? Conrad--yes,
Lambert; I already see that now I can't get a rational word out of you,
so in God's name, drive on. I have just put my old man to bed and given
him a cup of tea, so I am entirely free and will come over in about an
hour."

She gave Hans, who was already restlessly champing his bit, a blow on
his wet neck. He sprang away with his rider. "Those whom we love are
always but half near comfort," said Aunt Ursul, looking after him and
shaking her head; "nevertheless--nevertheless--Conrad is a madcap, and
acted this morning as though he had lost his reason. I must see that
all things go right."

Aunt Ursul turned back into the house, took her gun from the rack and,
with long strides, followed Lambert, who was already immersed in the
evening fog which rose from the creek in thick streaks.




                               CHAPTER X


When at noon to-day Lambert tore himself away from Catherine, she stood
still as though stunned. The conviction that she ought to remain behind
had come to her on the instant; the determination to do so had been
uttered so soon; the carrying out of the resolution too had followed so
closely at its heels, that now, as the forms of the riders disappeared
behind a turn of the road and she found herself really alone, it
appeared to her as though she were having a disagreeable, fearful dream
out of which she must momentarily awake. She struck herself over her
forehead and eyes, but all was real. There stood the empty crib. There
lay the pail which the mare had pushed over. There was the pillion
which at the last moment Lambert had unbuckled from the saddle. There
were the short, trampled grass and the tracks of the hoofs of the
horses. There was the open door in which she had just now seen Lambert.
Catherine took a few steps, as though she would follow the beloved one,
and then stood still, pressing her hand on her loud-beating heart. Deep
sadness overwhelmed her, but she vigorously fought down the feeling.
"He has so often called you a brave girl," said she to herself, "and
will you weep and complain like a child which the mother has left alone
for a few moments? He will soon come back; surely he will soon come
back."

She entered the house to see what time it was. The hand of the
Swartzwald clock pointed to twelve. The distance to Nicolas Herkimer's
house was six miles. If she counted going and returning it was twelve,
and on the calculation of the men themselves would take them two hours,
so that Lambert could be back by six o'clock, or by seven at the
latest. That was indeed a long time, but there was yet much to do, and
perhaps also to-day Conrad would return earlier from hunting.

"On Conrad's account I should remain here," said Catherine to herself
as she cleared away the dinner-dishes. "He must learn to see in me his
sister, and he will, when we show our confidence in him and have no
secrets before him. Ah, could I only yesterday have greeted him as a
brother! However, that will follow. It must follow yet to-day, when he
returns. Then we will live together in peace, and the wild man will
find that it is not a bad thing to have a female friend who takes care
of him until he himself loves a girl, and establishes a home and builds
a house for himself here near us, or at the edge of the woods he so
much loves. That will be a joyful, happy life. We will be good
neighbors. I shall love his wife and she me."

Catherine had sat down on the hearth and, with her head supported by
her hand, looked before her with half-closed eyes, thinking. The fire
on the hearth gently crackled; the wall-clock said "tick-tack." In the
meadow outside the birds sang. Through the open door the sun shone
clear into the cool, shaded room; and in the bright sunbeams, which
reached as far as her knees, dust atoms danced, lighted up, and
twinkling like golden stars seemed to be waving and playing and
catching one another. Then they were no longer golden stars, but
children's laughing faces, which emerged out of the partial darkness of
the background, came up to her knees, and again disappeared in the dark
corners, and from them looked out with bright, blue, happy eyes. Then
the vision vanished. The sun still shone into the silent room. The fire
crackled. The wall-clock said "tick-tack," and out in the meadows sang
the birds.

The young maiden arose and commenced her labor anew, but there was a
different expression in her mild, innocent countenance; and other
thoughts, which came to her like a revelation, filled her soul. The
bridal feeling which now happified her, had acquired another phase, for
which she knew not how to account. It was a deeper, more earnest
feeling--distinguished from the former like the light of noon now lying
on field and forest, from that of the morning. Those were the same
bending grass-stems and the same swaying tree-tops. It was the same
clear creek and they were the same waving rushes, and yet all was
changed as by a gentle, mighty, magic hand, and spoke another
speech--moving and dissolving in mystery. Now she understood why the
beloved man, who was truth and openness itself, so anxiously concealed
from her for weeks that she must live alone with him in his house.
"Alone! Would it not have been the same had he told the truth? told me
that he loved me? that he did not want me as a maid-servant? Would it
not have come out just the same? Did I not also love him from the first
moment on? and have I not followed him through peopled cities, through
the pathless wilderness, on a journey of weeks, through rain and
sunshine, day and night, in unknown regions? What is so different now?
Did I not devote myself to him as we left the ship hand in hand? 'You
shall be my lord!' And is it not said in the church when the minister
lays the hands of lovers together: 'He shall be thy lord.' Yes, he
shall be my lord, now and always. He shall be my lord."

So spoke Catherine to herself to banish the occasional shudders that
passed through her heart and often took away her breath, while she
completed the arrangements in her room which had been temporarily made
last evening, and put away her few belongings in a closet that had been
contrived in the thick wall. Then, as there was nothing more to do
here, she for the first time ascended the stairs to the upper story,
and walked around the gallery which encircled the house and projected
beyond the lower story, and was surrounded by well-joined planks and
provided with port-holes. With the exception of a place poorly enough
partitioned off in which the brothers had slept the previous night, the
room, used in winter as a store-room, was empty, or served for the
storage of that for which there was no room below. Catherine acquired a
clearer notion of the plan, which she and Lambert had formed in the
morning, to prepare a small, pleasant room for them both here where
everything was more airy and free. However, without Lambert she did not
succeed very well in planning.

So she again went downstairs, and to her surprise saw by the clock that
since Lambert had left but one hour had elapsed. She took some work and
seated herself with it on a bench before the door in the shade of the
gallery.

It was in the stillness of the day. There was so little wind that the
grass-stems in the meadow, and the rushes at the edge of the creek,
scarcely bent. The butterflies passed from flower to flower on languid
wing. The hum of the bees and the chirping of the crickets had a sleepy
sound. All around, everything was still. However, out of the forest
there frequently came the hoarse cry of the tree-falcon, or the call of
a bird which Catherine did not recognize. In the blue sky there hung
single white clouds whose shadows moved, slowly--very slowly--over the
sunny prairie.

At first Catherine was pleased with this quietude, which seemed an
image of sabbath stillness, filling her soul. But she had scarcely thus
sat an hour before the monotony of the scene about her filled her heart
with a strange fear. How entirely different it was this morning. Then
heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every
grass-stem smiled and bowed their welcome to her. Everything had spoken
to her in persuasive language. Now that the beloved one was at a
distance everything was dumb, except that heaven and earth and tree and
bush and every flower and every grass-stem breathed out one word with
ever-increasing sadness: Alone! alone!

Catherine let her work sink into her lap. An image, that had been for
many years as if blotted from her memory, suddenly came before her in
pale colors, but very distinct--the image of her dead mother, who,
adorned with flowers, lay in her coffin--and she a little girl, ten
years old, stood beside it; and her father had come up and taken her
hand and said: "We two are now alone."

"Alone!"

Her heart was filled with increasing fear. Again taking up her work she
tried to sing a song that always occurred to her when everything was so
quiet: "Were I a wild Falcon I would soar aloft." But she commenced so
gently that she did not complete the first measure. Her voice sounded
strange. She was frightened at her own voice.

Perhaps, she thought, it would be better if she went to the barn-yard
where in the morning she had passed such happy moments with Lambert.

She arose and hastily walked down the path, at last running, and now
with beating heart leaned against the bars of the inclosure. The sheep
which stood near ran away frightened, and looked at her from a distance
with dull eyes. In the yard all was still. The hens and turkeys had
gone out into the fields. As she again turned, from among the fruit
trees, in whose blossom-covered branches this morning a robin sang so
sweetly, there broke out a brown bird of prey and with broad, flapping
wings hastened toward the forest. On the ground among the grass there
lay several colored feathers.

More sad than when she went Catherine returned to the house, and again
sat down before the door, with the full purpose now to wait quietly,
and to fight down her depression of spirits.

So she sat patiently long, endless hours. The light in the green tops
of the trees in yonder woods became more golden. The shadows that lay
along the edge became deeper and broader--one after another came out of
the wilderness until at last they branched out in troops. From time to
time flocks of pigeons flew like lightning over the prairie from one
side of the forest to the other. High above them, in the bright sky,
sailed more slowly chains of wild geese, filling the air with their
monotone cry. Then again everything was still, and Catherine could hear
the rushing of the blood in her temples.

She could endure it no longer. It occurred to her that she had seen a
couple of books in the house on a shelf too high for her to reach. She
went in, pushed up the table, set a stool on it and got the books.

There were two of them, bound in hog's leather, very dusty and
worm-eaten--a Bible and a history, as it appeared. The writing on the
fly-leaf was at first in Latin, which the minister's daughter
understood well enough to decipher with a little pains. It stated
that this book belonged to Conrad Emanuel Sternberg, formerly a
student of theology at Heidelberg, who, in the year 1709, after his
parents--well-to-do vintners in the Palatinate--had lost everything in
the dreadful winter, when the wine in the casks and the birds in the
air froze, in company with the young cooper, Christian Ditmar, from
Heidelberg, had determined upon the great undertaking of emigrating to
America, which he reached June 13th, 1710, more dead than alive,
after a long and tedious voyage from the Rhine through Holland and
by way of England. He settled on the Hudson with his friends and
fellow-sufferers, where he hoped to end his life in quietness and
peace.

This pious wish was not fulfilled. Further notices followed this
connected narrative, but written in the German language, as though the
writer had meanwhile forgotten his Latin, saying that he had moved with
his faithful companion, Christian Ditmar, from the Hudson to the
Mohawk, thence to Schoharie and finally to Canada Creek. Then there was
the date of his marriage with Elisabeth Christiane Frank, of Schoharie,
the younger sister of Ursula, his old friend's and now brother-in-law's
wife, the birthdays of his sons, Lambert and Conrad, and the death of
Christiane. With this sad event the record of the life of the old
Heidelberg student was closed. He had not written a line more.

Catherine looked thoughtfully at the faded writing, gently closed the
lid and opened the second, smaller book. It was entitled: "Description
of the destruction of the city of Heidelberg on the 22nd and 23rd of
May, 1689."

She began to read mechanically until by degrees she became conscious of
what she was reading and sprang up with a dull outcry: "Great God! what
have I read? Is it possible that human beings can so rage against one
another--that there are tyrants to whom neither the silvered hair of
the aged, nor the modesty of the maiden, nor the innocent laughter of
children--to whom nothing is sacred?

"Why not? Did not the bands under Soubise ravage through the cities and
towns of Hanover? And did not their ruthless cruelty and base
shamelessness drive her old father and all her neighbors and friends
from their beloved homes across the sea? Were they not the sons and
grandsons of those robbers who, under Melac and Borges, burnt the
Palatinate and reduced Heidelberg to a dust heap?

"And again, did they not, the year before, ravage here just so, in
connection with the Indians, their like-minded confederates? Here,
among these hills and in these valleys and woods, the same French were
threatening again and their approach was already proclaimed. Dreadful!
dreadful!"

The poor girl, though so sore and sad at heart, had up to this moment
found no definite cause of fear. Now fear overwhelmed her with sudden
power. She looked with fixed eyes toward the edge of the forest as
though at every moment the French and Indians were about to break forth
from its silent recesses. She listened intently, until the blood seemed
to boil in her temples, and as though it would burst the veins.
Merciful God! What would become of her? How could Lambert leave her in
such a howling wilderness?--he who had so long been her guardian and
defense--he who had cherished her as the apple of his eye. If only
Conrad would come. It was about the same time yesterday when he
came--no, it was later; the sun had already set, and now it was still
over the woods. But why should he to-day stay out so long? And who,
besides Lambert, could better protect her than Lambert's brother, the
strong, alert man who only needed to set his foot across the door-step
to make those dwelling in the house feel secure? So Lambert said only
this morning. Why did he now stay away when his presence was so much
desired?

Catherine pressed her hands against her beating temples. What should
she do? What could she do but wait and try to hush a fear that surely
was childish. There near her lay the Bible. She had so often, in sad
hours, drawn from it rest and comfort. She took it up and read where
her eyes happened to fall:

"And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain
and his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth and his
countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain: Why art thou wroth? and
why is thy countenance fallen? * * *  And Cain talked with his brother
Abel, and it came to pass when they were in the field, Cain rose up
against Abel his brother and slew him."

The printed page glimmered before her eyes. With a dull cry the
affrighted girl sprang up. "Cain killed Abel! Cain killed Abel!" And
she had wished that he--the terrible one--were here--he who this
morning had uttered such dreadful threatenings. No, no! he must not
come back; he must not find her alone. He must not see her again. She
must away to meet Lambert. She must warn him--must tell him that his
brother would kill him on her account; that he must give her up, or
with her go out into the wide world. They must flee from the brother.
He must save her and himself from that dreaded brother.

As though the block-house was on fire Catherine hastened from the door,
down the hill, to the creek, along the creek, without looking around,
without observing that she had started in the opposite direction so
that at every step she was farther away from Lambert. When she reached
the bridge where Lambert had yesterday overtaken her she became aware
of her mistake. But she was like a wrecked vessel driven shoreward by
the waves and then again carried out to sea. Destruction by him from
whom she would escape seemed unavoidable. No more capable of forming a
further purpose, deprived of all strength, she sunk together; and as
though she must here await the expected death-blow, she bowed her head
and covered her face with her hands.

"Catherine!"

Slowly she withdrew her hands from her deadly pale face, and saw Conrad
standing before her with his rifle on his shoulder and his dog at his
heels, looking at her with vacant eyes, and appearing to have just come
out of the sedge along the shore. She had anticipated his coming--knew
that he would come. She no longer felt that nameless dread. On the
other hand there instantly came over her a peculiar restfulness, and in
a quiet tone she said: "You come late. I have been waiting for you."

"Indeed?" said Conrad.

He was also very pale, and the expression of his face was strangely
changed.

Catherine observed it, but it could not change her purpose to proceed,
even should it cost her life. She arose from her reclining position,
though not without an effort--her limbs seemed as if dead--and, as she
began mechanically to return to the house, she said:

"I have been waiting for you, since I wish to say something to you
before I leave your house."

Conrad started. Catherine felt it, though she kept her eyes directed to
the ground. However, involuntarily walking faster, she proceeded:

"What I could not tell you this morning, for it has taken place since,
I will say now. I have become engaged to your brother."

She expected that now an outbreak would follow, but Conrad walked on
silently at her side.

"I engaged myself to him," said Catherine--and her voice became firmer
while she spoke--"this morning after you were gone, and I hardly know
how it came about. I only know that Lambert has done for me more than
any other man, excepting my good old father who is dead; that to him I
owe my life, which therefore belongs to him; that at any time he might
ask for it he might have it of me. He did not ask it of me this
morning, but I gave it to him freely--my life and my love--for that is
the same. And now--"

"And now?" asked Conrad.

"Now I must away, if you are not the kind brother whom Lambert loves so
much--if you are resolved to turn the angry words you spoke this
morning into fierce deeds. How could I remain here and see how I have
sown strife between brother and brother, especially at this time, when
you should stand shoulder to shoulder against the treacherous enemy?
Where I shall go I do not know, I only know that I cannot stay, so long
as you are angry at your brother on my account. But, Conrad, while I
thus speak, it seems to me entirely impossible that you can place
yourself between me and your brother."

"Why impossible?" asked Conrad.

"Because you love your brother," replied Catherine, gathering courage
as she spoke. "You have every reason to love him, though you do not
love me as Lambert loves me. Why should you? You do not know me. You
saw me yesterday for the first time, and a few minutes this morning.
Though I may indeed have pleased you, yet, as you now hear that my
heart is already given to your brother, what else, as an honorable man,
can you do than to rejoice at our happiness as we would rejoice in
yours should heaven provide you a similar happiness, which I hope may
soon happen?"

They had reached the house. The dog, which with long leaps had gone
ahead, met them wagging her tail and springing against her master
Conrad pushed the animal away, but not with his usual rough force. His
manner was more sad than angry and his motions were like those of one
who is very tired. He sank down on the bench on which Catherine's work
and the books still lay, supported his elbow on his knee and rested his
head on his hand.

"You are hungry and thirsty from your long hunt," said Catherine;
"shall I prepare your evening meal?"

Conrad shook his head. All fear had vanished from Catherine's soul. As
she saw the wild, intractable man sitting there so still--so sunk
within himself--there stirred in her heart stronger and stronger
another feeling.

"Conrad," said she softly. "Conrad," she repeated, laying her hand on
his shoulder, "I will indeed also hold you very dear."

A dull cry, like that of an animal that has been mortally wounded,
broke from Conrad's broad chest. He put both hands to his face and wept
aloud like a child, and the body of the giant-like man shook from the
pain stirring within him as might the small frame of a child.

Catherine for a moment stood helpless and speechless. Then there
also came from her eyes warm tears, and with the tears she found
words--mild, kind words--of sympathy and comfort. She told him again
and again that she would love him as a sister should love a brother;
that his young, sorrowful heart would find peace; that he should see in
her his sister; and that he would find pure happiness in this feeling
until there blossomed out another happiness in the love of a virtuous
girl, in which no one would more deeply share than she and Lambert.

"Do not speak his name," said Conrad.

He had jumped up, all his limbs shaking with anger and his eyes
flashing. He convulsively grasped his gun, which stood near, by the
barrel.

"You think you are going to play me off with words. For me smooth
words; for him kisses! I saw to-day in the woods how handsomely you can
kiss."

He broke out in loud laughter. Catherine, frightened, drew back.

"So!" said Conrad, "that is your true face. Do you still love me as a
sister her brother?"

"If you are so unbrotherly, no!" said Catherine. "But you do not know
what you are saying."

"Truly not," growled Conrad.

"And not what you are doing," said Catherine. "You would otherwise be
ashamed to torment a poor, helpless girl."

She leaned against the door-post, pale and trembling, her hands folded
over her breast, her large eyes fixed on the angry man, who tried in
vain to meet her gaze, and raved before her like a wild animal.

Then the dog dashed forward, and at the same moment the dull hoof-beats
of a horse in full run became perceptible. Fear seized Catherine as to
what the issue would be should Lambert now return--and it could be no
other.

"Conrad!" she called; "Conrad, it is your brother."

Impelled by an overwhelming feeling she threw herself before him and
wound her arms about his knees.

"Let me be!" cried Conrad.

"Not till you have sworn that you will not injure him."

"Let me be!" cried Conrad again, and he violently tore her loose.
Catherine tottered forward, stumbled and fell. Her head struck hard
against the door-sill.

She came near fainting, but with a great effort picked herself up
again, as angry voices struck her ear, and threw herself between the
brothers.

"Lambert! Conrad! For God's sake, rather kill me! Conrad, it is your
brother. Lambert, he does not know what he is doing!"

The brothers released each other, and panting, looked at one another
with flashing eyes. By the sound Lambert's rifle had fallen to the
ground. Conrad held his half-raised in his strong hands.

"Now," said Lambert; "why do you not shoot?"

"I do not want to kill you," said Conrad. "If I wanted your life I
could have taken it this morning."

"What then do you want?"

"Nothing from you. Why did you come just now? You shall not see me
again. Since we have happened again to meet, let me tell you that it
must be the last time. Go your own way and let me go mine."

With a powerful swing he threw his rifle on his shoulder and turned
away.

Lambert intercepted him. "You must not go. I will forget that you
raised your hand against me. Do you also forget that I raised mine
against you. By the memory of our father; by the memory of our mother,
I conjure you, do not leave your parents' house."

"It is too small for us all," said Conrad, with bitter scorn.

"Then _we_ will leave it. I will gladly do it if you will but stay."

"I need no house," said Conrad.

"The house, however, needs you, as you can help defend it against our
bitter enemies. Do you wish to see it go up in flames? You know that
the French are coming--perhaps you know more about it than I--than all
of us; and we to-day greatly missed you. Will you become a traitor to
our common interests--to your brother, your friends, to wives and
children? Conrad, you must not go away!"

"If the enemy comes you will again creep away as you did before," said
Conrad. "I will not hide in forts. I will fight openly. I will take the
matter in hand entirely alone, and you may here, in your holes, go to
destruction or not; it will not trouble me. My blood be upon me if I
again set either foot across this door-sill!"

He pushed his fur cap down over his eyes, whistled to his dog, and as
he, making his rounds about the house, did not come, he called out:

"So you, too, stay here. Curse on you all!"

That was the last word that Catherine heard. The dreadful,
soul-stirring excitement of these hours had exhausted her strength, and
her fall had broken her down entirely. She felt a stinging pain in her
temples. There was a ringing in her ears. She saw Lambert's form, as
through a veil, bending over her; and then it was not Lambert, but Aunt
Ursul, and then everything sunk away about her in deep night.




                               CHAPTER XI


Aunt Ursul sat at Catherine's bed in the room carefully noticing every
motion of the young girl who lay there, pale, with closed eyes, half
asleep as it appeared. She repeatedly felt her pulse, and renewed the
cold cloths on her forehead. She then again bent over her, listened to
her quiet breathing, then bowed satisfied and murmured: "There's
nothing more to be done here now. We will now look after the young
man."

She arose and retired, as quietly as her heavy boots would permit, from
the chamber, her face expressing displeasure as the door creaked a
little, though she shut it very softly. Lambert, who had been sitting
at the hearth, raised his head and looked at her who was entering with
anxious eye. Aunt Ursul sat down by his side, placed her feet firmly on
the hearth, and said, in a tone intended to be a whisper, but on
account of her deep, rough voice was a dull growl:

"No, Lambert, on that side"--she at the same time inclined her large
head toward the chamber--"so far it goes quite well. The girl is a
brave child, and will to-morrow again stand firm in her shoes. If we
women should at once discover your stupidities we would have much to
do."

Lambert seized the hand of the kind woman. Tears stood in his eyes.
Aunt Ursul did not know how it happened, but her eyelashes also became
moist. She breathed deeply two or three times, and said: "You ought to
be ashamed, Lambert. You really have a heart like a young chicken, and
now it occurs to me that I have eaten nothing the whole day. Give me a
piece of bread and some ham, or whatever you have, and if there is yet
a swallow of rum in the flask it won't do any hurt--but add to it
two-thirds water. A well-behaved person will not otherwise drink the
fiery stuff. And now we will once have a little rational talk, Lambert.
We need not be in a hurry. The girl sleeps so soundly that she will not
wake under six hours."

Lambert had taken what was wanted out of the cupboard. Aunt Ursul moved
her chair to the table, and while she was eating heartily, said:

"Do you know, Lambert, that the girl is a treasure?"

Lambert bowed.

"And that neither you, nor Conrad, nor any man in this earthly vale of
tears, is good enough for the maiden?"

Lambert's eyes said: "Yes."

"I have now for the first time carefully looked at her," said Aunt
Ursul; "as she lay there, white and bloody, like the doves this
morning. There is not one false or distorted line in her lovely face.
Everything is entire purity and innocence, as though the Lord God
had opened a window in heaven and sent her forth upon the earth. And
now to think that such a lovely angel is destined to all the suffering
and anguish which is our inheritance from our mother Eve--Good God,
it is dreadful! Since, rightly considered, Lambert, you cannot help
it, as you did not make the world, and are all in all a good man,
Lambert--yes, a right good man--what Aunt Ursul can do to smooth the
way to your happiness that she will do with all her heart. Yes, surely,
Lambert, that she will."

"I thank you, aunt," replied Lambert. "I can truly say that I have
always been persuaded of your good will, and have constantly reckoned
on you, but I am afraid that now nobody can any longer help us. How
shall I stand with her before God's altar when I know that my brother
begrudges me my happiness? Even could I do so, Catherine could not bear
the thought that it is she on whose account Conrad is irreconcilably
angry. She knows how I have loved the young man--how I still love
him. I could shed my blood for him, and how did he renounce us even
now--even now?"

Lambert supported his forehead with his hand. On Aunt Ursul's rough
face there also lay a deep, helpless sadness. She wished to say
something comforting to Lambert, but found nothing to say. Lambert
proceeded:

"I am not angry at him. How could I be? You know, aunt, that we were
long uncertain whether he or I should go to New York, since he had less
to keep him, and we thought it would do him good to get out among other
people. Then he would have found Catherine, and he would surely have
dealt just as I did; and who knows how everything would then have
fitted itself in?"

Aunt Ursul shook her large head.

"Do not sin against yourself, Lambert," said she. "I have always found
that, rightly weighed, everything had to come out just as it did come
out, and with this we pause."

"I, also, cannot conceive how it could have been different," replied
Lambert. "As far as I can see, my hand has been little in this, and yet
I might even surrender her could I thus bring Conrad back."

"And I my two hands and my head in addition," said Aunt Ursul, "could I
by that means bring it about that my four boys might enter the door
alive. Lambert, Lambert! let me tell you, 'if' and 'but' are very fine
things, but one must keep them away from him or he will get crazy over
them. I have had experience of it in myself and in my old man."

"But Conrad is not dead," said Lambert, "so all hope cannot be lost. I
had also lost my head. I did not know what I said or did. He was
without this already unhappy enough. Alas, aunt, I am also to blame. I
would gladly tell him that. I would like to talk right into his heart.
He has hitherto always been willing to listen to me. What do you
advise, aunt?"

"What should I advise?" said Aunt Ursul fretfully. "It is always the
old story: First you set the world on its head, and then you come
running and cry: 'What do you advise, aunt?' Am I God? Many times there
seems to be need of it. No, Lambert, in that you are indeed right.
Conrad is not yet dead, and so we need not throw away our guns into the
grain-field. But it will not do to pour out the child with the water in
which you have bathed it. To pour oil into the fire increases the
blaze. Should you now go to Conrad it would not be well. You can't
gather ripe figs from a thorn-bush. In due time one can pick roses,
Lambert, in due time."

Aunt Ursul repeated her last words several times as though she would
thus help her inability to advise.

"But time is pressing," said Lambert. "Who knows how soon we shall have
the French here?--Perhaps to-morrow. My God! to-morrow should be our
wedding day."

He told his aunt what arrangement he had made with the minister.

"Yes, yes; man proposes, but God disposes," said Aunt Ursul. "We can
now say nothing about tomorrow. This thing will probably not get so far
as that by to-morrow. What concerns the other I will make my care,
Lambert. Whether the maiden comes to me, or I to her, will be about the
same in the minister's eyes, to say nothing about God, who has
something better to attend to than to trouble himself about such
hocus-pocus. I am here beforehand. I would gladly have looked after my
old man, who was today quite desperate and heathenish, but if it must
be I too will stay. There must be some one to lead the regiment when it
comes. Still there, Pluto! What does the beast mean? I believe the
young men are coming already. You look after them, Lambert. I will
meanwhile look after the girl; and Lambert, if they are there, keep
them before the house. The night is warm and you can keep watch there.
Whoever wishes to sleep can come in here and lie down on the hearth,
but I want him to be as still as a mouse."

Aunt Ursul went into the room. Lambert stepped to the front door and
quieted the growling Pluto. He listened, and now clearly heard the
steps of his comrades. Soon their forms emerged out of the light fog
which had spread over the fields near the creek, though the moon
already stood at some height over the woods. There were three of them.
Lambert's heart beat. He expected only Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer.
Was Conrad the third? Surely, surely it must be Conrad.

But out of Pluto's broad chest sounds like rolling thunder now broke
forth. Did not the intelligent and faithful beast know her own master?
Lambert with great eagerness went to meet those who were coming.

"God bless you, Lambert," said Richard Herkimer.

"God bless you, Lambert," said Fritz Volz.

The third one had remained a few steps behind.

"Who is the other one?" asked Lambert with trembling voice.

"Guess," said Richard laughing.

"The crazy fellow," said Fritz Volz.

"He would go with us, though Annie herself thought that he would not
fire away his powder for nothing," said Richard.

"Is it Adam Bellinger?" asked Lambert.

"Now come up, you hare's foot," said Fritz Volz.

"Are you holding the dog?" asked Adam, with uncertain voice.

Richard and Fritz laughed, but Lambert could not join them, as he might
have done at another time. Adam instead of Conrad! What could have
moved the silly fellow to such night-wandering except the desire again
to be near Catherine? What would his friends think of Catherine? What
would not the talkative Adam have told them on the way.

"Come a little nearer," said Richard, having taken Lambert's arm as
they were walking toward the house. "I want to say a few words to you.
You must not be angry, Lambert, that we brought Adam along. He would
not be set right. Heaven knows what has come into his calf's head. We
could have made nothing out of his crazy talk, but the ladies lit the
candle so that it shone bright enough. That you--Nay, Lambert, old boy,
I wish you happiness with all my heart. And I can also tell you that by
this a heavy stone is lifted from my heart. You know I have always
liked Annie, and she has not been unkind to me; but old Bellinger had
got his head set that you must become his third son-in-law--and nobody
else. Now if you marry the stranger girl it will help us all. Therefore
once more, happiness and blessing, Lambert Sternberg, with my whole
heart."

"That I also wish you," said Lambert.

"I know it," said Richard; "but now we must also say good evening to
your girl, Lambert. If she is half as handsome as Adam swears, she must
be something truly wonderful. Is she in the house?"

They stood before the door. The two others were still some distance
behind. Lambert drew his young friend beside him on the bench and
briefly told him everything which sooner or later he would have
unfolded more fully, but which now could no longer be kept secret.

"This is my situation, Richard," concluded he. "You can conceive how
heavy my heart is."

"I can well conceive it," said Richard Herkimer, heartily pressing
Lambert's hand. "Dear friend, this is an unhappy record. Conrad should
be ashamed, especially at this time, to forsake you and leave the cart
sticking in the mud, when even such fellows as John Mertens and Hans
Haberkorn are pulling with us at the same rope."

"You see, Richard, it is that which grieves me most," said Lambert,
"You know how they talked about us last year--that we held with the
French; that Conrad spoke Indian better than German, and other
scandalous stuff. What will they now say when they hear that, at the
very moment when the danger breaks in upon us, Conrad is not to be
found among us?"

"Let them say what they will," said Richard. "My father, the minister,
and all who are reasonably intelligent, you have always had on your
side; and they will also this time know what to think. Perhaps Conrad
also will yet consider."

"God grant it!" said Lambert, with a deep sigh.

"Now," said Richard, rising, "I will give a wink to Fritz Volz; and
then you must tell us what we are to do for the night."

Richard Herkimer went to the two others, who had remained standing at
some distance, engaged, as it appeared, in a discussion. At the same
moment Aunt Ursul came out of the door.

"Is that you, Lambert?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Who are the others?"

Lambert named the friends.

"What, then, does Adam want?" said Aunt Ursul.

"The fellow has become quite foolish. Nay, Lambert, that is your
business; but to-morrow send off the awkward fellow. We don't want
useless eaters here. This evening he may come in with the rest.
Catherine is up again. She says it is not a time now to be sick. In
that surely she is right. She is standing at the fire, boiling an
evening soup for your people, as though nothing had happened--the noble
girl! I am now going home; and, Lambert, the minister meant well in
what he said to you, but under the circumstances it is senseless. You
are an honorable man, and the girl is not trifling, and God knows what
your duty is in the case."

Lambert went with Aunt Ursul into the house. Catherine came to meet
him, looking pale and having a cloth wound about her head, but greeting
him with a friendly smile. "You must not scold me," she said. "To
please your aunt I acted as though I was asleep. I have heard
everything. I could not remain quietly in bed while you have so many
guests. I again feel quite well."

She leaned her head against his breast and whispered: "And you love me
notwithstanding, Lambert; not so?"

Lambert held the dear girl fast in his arms as a loud ahem! was heard,
and Aunt Ursul entered the door closely followed by the three young
men.

"So, you young people," said Aunt Ursul, "come in and eat your
supper--that is, if it is ready; and this is my Lambert's dear bride,
and she is not standing there like Lot's pillar of salt. Adam
Bellinger, you may as well shut your mouth. No roasted pigeons will fly
into it. There is for this evening a soup, so that you must move your
own hands to get it conveniently out of the bowl. So, Richard Herkimer,
that is right that you at once offer your hand to the young lady. You
are always polite, having learned it from your father. And now I'll be
off. God protect you, Catherine, and you, Lambert, and you all. I shall
come again to-morrow and perhaps with my old man. Now nobody needs to
be farther concerned about me. Do you hear? Aunt Ursul can find her
home alone."

While she thus spoke she took her rifle, kissed Catherine heartily, and
shook hands with the young men one after the other. Then she walked out
of the house into the windy night.

The three guests breathed more freely when austere Aunt Ursul had
turned her broad back, and her heavy tread outside was heard. But it
was some time before they began to look about them and to talk, though
Catherine kindly invited them to take seats, and assured them that the
soup would soon be ready.

Richard Herkimer said to Fritz Volz: "Better sit down, Fritz," though
he himself remained standing. Fritz Volz pushed Adam Bellinger in the
side and asked him if he did not see that he was standing in the way of
the young lady. Then they rubbed their hands as if they were entirely
frozen, though, at least on Adam's brow, clear sweat drops were
impearled. And when they spoke it was in whispers, as though the
steaming soup which Catherine now placed on the table was to be their
last meal.

Adam Bellinger was not quite sure whether this would be the case with
him. Fritz Volz had before told him that the chief business would be
diligently to patrol against the enemy, and, since he had such a
burning desire to measure himself against the French, he must make the
beginning; that it was indeed no fun to walk about the woods in the
night when there might be a Frenchman behind every tree; but that
doubtless Adam would teach the fellows manners. Adam said that he had
come to help defend the blockhouse against a possible attack, but not
to let himself be shot by the French and scalped by the Indians in the
woods in the night and fog. The contention about this, which had before
been arrested, was now again taken up by the teasing Fritz, though with
a little timidity. He wanted to know from Adam how he could distinguish
between a tree-trunk and an Indian, in the night. Richard asked him how
he would save himself if he were suddenly seized by his long, yellow
hair from behind and jerked to the ground. By these and other similar
questions of the two teasers, Adam was thrown into great distress. They
laughed loud, while he came near crying, until Catherine interposed,
saying that a courageous man would in danger hit upon the right thing,
though he might not be able to tell beforehand what he would do.

"Yes, indeed," said Adam, "the young lady has more sense in her little
finger than you have in your two heads. I shall doubtless know what I
have to do."

He accompanied these brave words with such a thankful, tender look at
Catherine, that both the merry rogues broke out in loud laughter, and a
glimmer of mirthfulness passed over Lambert's earnest face.

"It is enough," said he. "Adam will do his duty as well as the rest of
us. It is time that we assign the watch for the night; two for every
two hours, and Adam and I will make the beginning. Good night,
Catherine."

He gave his hand to Catherine. The others followed his example. As
Lambert was leaving the house Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer came out
too.

"We will also rather stay outdoors," said Richard. "Fritz, as I know by
experience, cannot do without snoring and that might disturb Catherine,
who surely needs sleep."

Fritz Volz said he could do without snoring, but Richard could not stop
talking, and that it was on the whole better that they should camp
before the door.

"You kind young men," said Lambert.

"Is that kind?" said Richard eagerly. "I would stand all night on my
head if I knew that Catherine would sleep better on that account."

"And I would lie there in the creek up to my neck in the water," said
Fritz Volz.

Adam sighed, and looked at the moon which hung clear and large over the
forest.

"Come, Adam," said Lambert, "we will go upon our round."

They set out, accompanied by Pluto. The others stretched themselves out
upon the dry sand before the door, wrapped up in their blankets, their
rifles in their arms. Fritz Volz did not snore. Richard Herkimer did
not talk. Both looked up to the twinkling stars, lost in thoughts which
happily remained concealed from Gussie and Annie Bellinger.

Never before had Catherine been so carefully guarded as during this
night.




                              CHAPTER XII


The following day was the Sabbath, though it brought the Germans on the
Mohawk and on the creek no Sabbath rest; but only labor, fatigue,
alarm, distraction. From early morning it swarmed in all the
settlements as in a bee-hive. Wives prepared and packed. Holes were dug
in carefully selected and well-concealed places, in which such valuable
things as could not well be taken along were hidden. The men got their
arms in readiness, or brought the cattle from the pastures and from the
woods and shut them up in the yards so that they could at any moment
drive them to the fort, or to Herkimer's house, as orders had been
given yesterday afternoon. Boats went busily here and there. From time
to time a rider hastened to one of the rendezvous appointed for the
three flying corps. A feeling of security and pride took possession of
all when such a squadron, consisting of twenty-four well mounted and
armed young men, under the lead of Charles Herkimer, Richard's oldest
brother, trotted up the river toward Black River to reconnoiter. By
noon the two new ferries were also ready. All felt assured of the
usefulness of these arrangements, now that it had come to the point of
actual flight, though yesterday they had met with earnest opposition.
However, more than one could hardly believe in such a possibility, for
the sun in the blue sky shone down so golden, the birds sang so
blithely in the trees, and over the fields from the little church on
the hill came the clear sound of the small bell. But, indeed, on the
twelfth of November of the year before, the sun also rose clear, and
when it had gone down its last rays had fallen on the ruins of more
than one burned house, and more than one was lying in the fields who
would never again see it rise. The remembrance of that dreadful day was
yet too fresh to allow the thoughtless to shut out the seriousness of
the situation; and the bitter thought that they would have to answer
for leaving house and home unprotected from the ruthless enemy,
reminded them of Herkimer's words the day before, that everything,
except life itself, can again be arranged, and can be more or less
easily made to accommodate itself to the inevitable.

Also in the otherwise so quiet house on the creek there was to-day a
restless urgency. Jacob Ehrlich and Anthony Bierman had come from the
Mohawk, accoutered with their rifles and a large sack of ammunition,
which Herkimer had given them, and which the stout young men had
carried by turns the whole distance up the creek. Now the powder, to
which each added his own store, was equally divided, and the caliber of
the rifles was measured, whence it appeared that two different sizes of
bullets must be cast. With this Lambert intrusted Adam Bellinger,
after, under four eyes, not without a certain solemnity, he had said
that it was his earnest desire to stay and take part in every danger
with him and the rest. He knew about the French, but would rather hear
the whistling of their bullets and the Indian's war-whoop than the
laughter of the women at home should he now return without having
accomplished anything. Lambert pitied the poor fellow, and the more
since Catherine took kindly to her foolish admirer and laughed in a
friendly way at his peculiarities.

In the council of war held by the young men it was decided that they
must leave the door-yard, which for good reasons had been made to
extend a considerable distance from the house, as it was, and that
their defense must be confined to the house itself. The proposition of
Richard to conduct the water of the creek into the dry ditch which
encircled the foot of the hill outside of the stone inclosure was
discarded as evidently requiring too much time. Instead of this it was
decided to deepen the partly filled ditch as much as they could, and in
many places where the wall was broken down to repair and raise it and
entirely to block up the passage-way through it opposite the house-door
with stones and plank, and meanwhile use a bridge over the wall and
dug-way that could be easily removed. There was found little to do to
the house itself, though they looked carefully after the strong
shutters with which the port-holes of the ground-floor, like those of a
war-ship, could be closed from within, and so also at those covering
the round holes in the gallery, through which they could fire at an
enemy from above, should he be able to reach the house and come beneath
the gallery. In the roof were cut several trap-doors, so that here also
those approaching could be greeted with two very long-range rifles.

While the men were thus engaged, Catherine and Aunt Ursul, who had
again come early in the morning, did not remain unemployed. Fortunately
water did not first have to be brought. The spring carried into the
house by the intelligent and indescribable labor of Lambert's father,
furnished plentifully all that was needed. But for the moment the
supply of provisions seemed to be inadequate. During Lambert's absence
Conrad had lived from hand to mouth, according to his hunter's custom,
and Catherine had manifestly had no time to supply what was lacking. So
Adam had repeatedly to go empty to the Ditmar house, which happily was
not far, and come back loaded with loaves of bread, hams and other
good things--every time received with a loud hallo by his merry
companions--until Aunt Ursul declared that there was enough to last
eight days. For still better provision a couple of wethers of Lambert's
small flock were driven into the inclosure where also Hans was pastured
on the short grass, and often shook his thick head and looked at
Lambert with his intelligent eyes, as though he wished to know what the
unusual rush to-day might mean, and whether he must walk about saddled
all day. But it might be that at any moment a message had to be sent,
and Hans had to be ready.

So they labored busily in the work of fortifying, and were toward noon
engaged in erecting the fire-signal, when a rider on a gray horse
became visible, as he was coming up the valley on a trot.

"Herkimer! Herkimer!" called out Fritz Volz, who first saw him.

"Yes, it is father," said Richard in confirmation.

A few minutes later the distinguished man stopped before the door, and
was respectfully greeted by Lambert and the other young men.

"I have no time to stop," said Herkimer, "and only wanted to see how
far you have got. Now this looks well. Could you fill the ditch with
water it would indeed be better; but this would be a long and wearisome
labor, and you will have to dispense with it. How are you off for
ammunition? Do you think you have enough, Lambert?"

Herkimer had now dismounted, and he asked Lambert and Aunt Ursul, who
had meanwhile come out of the house, to give him detailed account of
the condition of things, by means of which he knew how to bring it
about that they should get some distance from the others.

He then said, "I would like to speak to you alone. I feel sure of you,
and of Richard, but I am not so certain of the others, whom I do not
know so well. You will here, so far as one can now judge, have a
difficult position. I this morning received intelligence that the
French have at least three hundred men, and that besides this the
Onondagas and the Oneidas will join them. The bargain is indeed not yet
concluded, but will doubtless be made if our last means fail--I mean if
Conrad is not in a position to bring his old friends into a different
state of mind. I have from the governor the long-expected authority to
yield to them everything possible, and can intrust Conrad with it. He
or nobody is in a situation to turn away from us this great misfortune.
Where is he? I have not yet seen him."

"Hurry over there, Lambert. Those sparrow-heads will not finish without
you," said Aunt Ursul.

"The poor boy!" she proceeded, as Lambert went away with red cheeks and
a thankful look at Aunt Ursul, "the poor, dear boy! his heart is being
eaten out; and that so that now the whole world must become acquainted
with his brother's shame, which is really his own shame. Nay, you are
indeed not sponsor for the whole world, Herkimer, but in this case you
must be satisfied with me."

She then briefly told Herkimer all that it was necessary for him to
know.

The excellent man listened with an earnest, thoughtful mien, and there
lay a deep pain in the tone of his voice as now, shaking his gray head,
he said:

"So we Germans will not unitedly resist our natural enemy. That Conrad
should now fail us is a sad misfortune. His quarrel with Lambert at
this moment means, not one friend less, but several hundred enemies
more. Yes, why do I say hundred? The example of the Oneidas may
become the measure of all the nations along the lakes, and then our
well-being--our peace--is past for a long time, perhaps forever!"

Nicolas Herkimer sighed, and struck his forehead with his hand.

"Now," said he, "what one cannot hinder one must let happen, and, in
any case, poor Catherine cannot help it. Let us go in a few moments,
aunt, I would like to form the acquaintance of the maiden who so turns
the heads of our young men."

Catherine, who was busily engaged at the hearth in her preparations for
dinner, had paid no attention to what was going on outside. She had
just stepped to the door to look for Aunt Ursul, and suddenly saw a
strange and very stately man opposite to her, in whom she at once
recognized Nicolas Herkimer. A deep blush flew over her cheeks; then,
however, she approached without being confused, and put her hand in
Herkimer's offered right hand.

"Poor child!" said he, holding her thin fingers for a moment, "the life
that awaits you here is very rough. May the strength you need not be
wanting to you."

"Ah, what, sponsor," said Aunt Ursul; "do not make the maiden shy. You
think because she has hands like a princess--but it depends not on the
hands, but on the heart, sponsor--and that I assure you is in the right
place. So much I can tell you."

"Should you not say it, those eyes would do so," said Herkimer
smiling--"at least to me, who am old enough to look into them without
being punished for it. Now, my dear girl, you need not blush. You see
my hair is getting gray, so a joke may be allowed. Live happy, Aunt
Ursul. Live happy, kind maiden; and may heaven grant that we may
joyfully meet again."

He said the last words also to the young men, who had finished their
work and had come up. Then he pressed the hand of each one in turn,
holding that of his son Richard perhaps a moment longer, swung himself
on the gray, and rode off on a sharp trot without looking back.

"That is an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile," said Aunt
Ursul. "And now, children, let us go to the table. I have an appetite
like a wild wolf."

Notwithstanding this information, at the dinner to which they now sat
down Aunt Ursul ate almost nothing, and also, contrary to her custom,
was very still. Toward the last she took no part whatever in the
conversation, and first woke from her absent-mindedness when Anthony
Bierman, who had the watch, announced the minister.

"Who?" called Aunt Ursul, as she quickly rose from her chair; "the
minister? He comes at the right time for me. God has sent him. Keep
your seats; do you hear?"

Aunt Ursul hastily left the house and went to meet the minister, who,
with rapid strides, was approaching, having his hat, wig and snuff-box
in one hand, and in the other a colored pocket handkerchief with which
he was wiping his bald head.

"I know it already," he called out, as soon as he caught sight of Aunt
Ursul. "Herkimer, who met me between your house and Volz', has told me
everything."

"So much the better," replied Aunt Ursul, "and now, dominie, don't talk
as loud as if you were standing in the pulpit. The young folks are
within, and must not hear what we are doing here. Come close."

She led the minister away from the house to the wall of the door-yard,
where nobody could hear except Hans, who now raised his thick head and
with a bit of grass in his mouth observantly looked at the two with his
black eyes from under his bushy foretop.

"What business have you to listen? Go your way," said Aunt Ursul to the
horse.

"But, Aunt Ursul, what in all the world is it all about?" asked the
minister.

"You shall soon hear," replied Aunt Ursul, whose glances wandered from
the edge of the woods to the sky, and from there again toward the
woods, and at last, with a peculiar expression of face, rested on the
minister.

"You are not married, dominie, and for what you do, or leave undone,
you are accountable to nobody."

"What do you mean by that?" asked the minister.

"My old man is seventy-one, and I do not believe that he will last much
longer," remarked Ursul thoughtfully.

The minister held the pinch of snuff, that he had meant to apply to his
nose, between his fingers, and looked attentively at Aunt Ursul.

"Should he live longer, he has had me thirty years; and sometime
everything must come to an end; so we are very properly called and
chosen thereto."

The minister dropped the pinch of snuff. "For God's sake, Aunt Ursul,
what are you driving at?"

"I took you to be more courageous," said Aunt Ursul.

"And I you to be more rational," said the minister.

"About such things one must ask his own heart," said Aunt Ursul.

"And the heart is a timorous, perverse thing," replied the minister.

"Yes, very timid," said Aunt Ursul, scornfully.

"Yes; truly perverse," said the minister guardedly.

"Now, without further parley, will you be my man, or not?" said Aunt
Ursul who had lost patience.

"God forbid!" said the minister, who could no longer control his
repugnance.

"Indeed, you look like a man," said Aunt Ursul contemptuously, turning
on her heel.

"Are you then entirely God-forsaken, unhappy woman?" said the minister,
laying his fleshy hand on Aunt Ursul's shoulder.

"Not I, but you, hare-hearted man," said Aunt Ursul, shaking off his
hand and turning vigorously away. "You who always preach about
sacrifice and love, and have neither the one nor the other; and shear
the cuckoo for the lost lamb, if you can only sit quietly by your
flesh-pots. Now then stay, in the devil's name--God forgive me the
sin--I shall be able alone to find the road to my poor, misguided boy,
and God will give me the right words to touch his heart."

Again Aunt Ursul turned away. The minister slapped his forehead, and
with a few rapid steps overtook her as she was hastening from him.

"Aunt Ursul!"

"What do you want?"

"Naturally I will go with you."

"For once."

"For once and every time. By the thousand, woman! why did you not tell
me at once that it was something about Conrad?"

"About whom else should it be?"

"About many things. Forget what I have said. I give you my word as a
man and as a servant of God that it was a misunderstanding--of which I
am ashamed--and for which I ask your pardon. When shall we start?"

Aunt Ursul shook her head. She could not conceive what her old friend
had before thought, but she felt that he was now fully resolved, and
minutes were precious.

"At once naturally," she replied to his last question.

"I am ready."

"So! Come in and say a friendly word to the girl, and let nothing be
noticed. Lambert must not know what we have in hand. Nobody must know.
If we succeed in bringing him back it is well; if not, let his shame be
buried with us. In either case they must not feel concerned about us.
It is possible, dominie, that we shall never return. You comprehend
that clearly?"

"God's will be done," said the minister.




                              CHAPTER XIII


Two hours later, Aunt Ursul and the minister were already deep in the
forest, away from the creek, on a narrow Indian path, which was as well
the path of the buffalo and the deer. But Pluto, going before the
wanderers, with her broad nose near the ground and her long, restless
tail wagging, did not follow the tracks of buffalo or deer. More than
once she turned away from a fresh track into the woods, every time soon
to return into the path.

"You see now, dominie, how well it is that I went back to fetch the dog
on an occasion like this," said Aunt Ursul. "You were impatient at the
losing of time, but we are well paid for it."

"It was not on account of the delay," replied the minister. "I was
afraid that, in spite of our large circuit, they would guess our
purpose. Both Lambert and Catherine looked at us with an expression
which, as I read it, meant: 'We know what you are up to!'"

"They know nothing," said Aunt Ursul. "Why should I not call out the
dog for my own and my old man's greater security?"

"Because nobody would really believe that you are so disturbed by
fear."

"Well," said Aunt Ursul, "let them think what they please. Without the
dog we should fail, and so let us push on."

"I am not quite sure that we shall so reach our end, Aunt Ursul."

"Are you already tired?"

"I tire not so easily, in such an affair, you know. But who can assure
us that Conrad, in his anger and despondency, has not walked as far as
his feet would carry him, which at last must be farther than we with
our best will can go. And there is another possibility, of which I
think with trembling."

"That my young man has gone over to them?" cried Aunt Ursul, turning so
quickly that the minister, who was close behind, jumped back a step.
"Do you mean that?"

"God forbid!" replied the minister, displeased at Aunt Ursul's
question, and that by its earnestness his opened snuff-box was almost
knocked out of his hand. "But he who lays his hand upon his brother, as
Conrad has done, may also lay his hand upon himself. As far as I know
Conrad, the last will be at least as easy as the first."

"You, however, do not know my young man," said Aunt Ursul earnestly,
and she went on in more quiet tones: "See, dominie, I admit that the
young man, at this moment, does not value his life more than a pine
cone, but, notwithstanding, I would swear that he will sell it dear.
And who shall pay for it? The French and their base Indians. That you
may depend on. And see, dominie, that is also the reason why I am
thoroughly convinced that he has not gone as far as his feet could
carry him, but is somewhere here near by, and is keeping sharp watch
over the house in which his parents lived, whose door-sill he will
never again cross. He may keep his word, but be assured, dominie, if
the enemy get so far they will have to come over his dead body."

Deeply moved, Aunt Ursul was silent. The minister, though not entirely
convinced, thought it prudent not to express his opinion.

So they went on for some time in silence. The dog ran ahead, or out to
one or the other side of the path, at one moment stopping and smelling
up in the air, then again eagerly following a track. Aunt Ursul's
sharp, knowing eyes watched every movement of the animal, and often she
gently said: "Search, Pluto!--that is right, Pluto," more to herself
than to the dog, for she needed little encouragement. The minister kept
his eyes fixed on Aunt Ursul's broad back, and conversed with her when
the path did not require all his attention.

This indeed was often the case, and soon the path became so difficult
for their unaccustomed feet that conversation stopped entirely. Ever
rougher and steeper became the ascent over the great roots of the old
forest pines. Ever more wildly roared the creek among the sharp rocks,
until at length in a deep cleft under overhanging vines it entirely
disappeared from the wanderers. Following the dog, they now turned off
to the right into the woods, and, laboriously going up a few hundred
steps, reached the top of the plateau.

Here the minister, whose strength was nearly exhausted, would gladly
have rested a few moments; but Aunt Ursul, with an expressive look,
pointed to the dog, which with great jumps, as though full of joy, ran
about a pine which stretched up giant-like in the midst of a little
opening.

"There he lay," said Aunt Ursul, almost breathless from excitement and
joy. "Here, in this spot, he lay. Do you see, dominie, the impression
in the moss and the crushed bushes? There also is a torn piece of
paper. Here he put a new load in his rifle. Further, dominie, further.
I would swear that in less than half an hour we will have himself.
Further! Further!"

The energetic woman shoved her rifle, which had slid off by her bending
over, more securely on her shoulder, and took several long steps, as
the dog, which for a moment had stood motionless with raised head
looking into the woods, suddenly, with a loud bark and breaking through
the bushes with great leaps, disappeared in the forest.

"Now, God help us! what then has the beast?" said the minister, coming
up panting.

"Her master," replied Aunt Ursul. "Still!"

Bending her body she stared with great round eyes at the thicket in
which the dog had disappeared. The minister's heart throbbed ready to
burst. He would gladly have taken a pinch of snuff, as he usually did
when peculiarly excited, but Aunt Ursul had laid her hand on his arm,
and her brown fingers pressed harder and harder.

"Still!" said she again, though the minister neither spoke nor stirred.
"Don't you hear anything?"

"No," said the minister.

"But I do."

A peculiar sound, half a call, half a sob, came from her throat. She
let go the arm of the minister and hastened in the same direction the
dog had taken. But she had not yet reached the edge of the opening,
when the bushes separated and Conrad stepped out, accompanied by Pluto,
barking with joy and jumping up against her master. Aunt Ursul could
not or would not check her walk. She threw herself forward on Conrad's
breast, who with strong arms embraced the good aunt, his second mother,
bending his face over her shoulder to conceal the tears streaming from
his eyes.

So the two stood, encircled in each other's arms, and the light of the
evening sun played so beautifully about the handsome picture that the
eyelashes of the minister became moist.

He stepped up gently, and, laying one hand on Conrad's shoulder and the
other on that of his aunt, said heartily: "Here my blessing is not
needed, but I must be permitted to rejoice with you."

"God bless you, dominie!" said Conrad, raising himself up and reaching
out his hand to the worthy man. "This is handsome in you that you have
accompanied aunt. I did not expect you, at least not both of you."

"Yet, Conrad," said Aunt Ursul, interrupting him, "why are you ashamed
to tell the truth? You did expect me!"

"Well, yes," said Conrad.

"And I have brought him along." Aunt Ursul added, "because you know him
from childhood, that he's a good and righteous man; and in such a case
a man can speak better to a man than a poor woman like me, for the
cuckoo knows how it looks in your hard hearts."

Conrad's handsome countenance darkened while his aunt spoke in this
manner. His eyes looked angry from under his sunken eyelashes. However,
he forced himself to speak with apparent calmness, saying: "I thank you
again; but, aunt, and you, dominie, I beg you say nothing about
him--you know whom I mean--and also nothing about her. I can't hear it
and I won't hear it. It may be that I am wrong, but I have taken my
stand and will take the consequences."

"Now," said Aunt Ursul to the minister, "you must open your mouth. For
what else did I bring you along?"

Aunt Ursul was quite angry. She felt a secret sympathy with Conrad, and
had at the same time an obscure feeling that, in his condition, she
would think and speak and act in the same manner. She could say nothing
more, in a case in which her heart sided so painfully with the one who
was in the wrong.

The minister, in his excitement, took one pinch of snuff after the
other. Then he sought unavailingly for the few remaining particles,
closed his box, put it in his pocket, and said: "Conrad, listen quietly
to me a few minutes. I think I can tell you something of which you
have, perhaps, not so earnestly thought. Whether you are wrong in
regard to your brother and the maiden--whom I to-day first learned to
know, and who appears to be a good, brave girl--or not, I will not
decide, nor will I examine into the matter. I have never been married,
nor, so far as I know, in love, but once, and that so long ago that it
may well be that I do not understand such things. But, Conrad, there
are brothers whom we cannot renounce. There are father's houses which
must be sacred to us under all circumstances. In the one case we are of
the same lineage; in the other it is our home-land. On this account, to
us driven away and thrust out--to us pressed down and shaken together
by strangers in a strange land--must those relatives who are still
left--must the country of our new home, be twice and thrice holy. And
there is nothing, Conrad, that can release us from this duty; no strife
with a brother, no wish to have a wife, no rights as to mine and thine,
for here there is no mine and thine, but only _our_, as in the prayer
we offer to God in whom we all believe. I know well, Conrad, that this
feeling of holy duty has not died out of your heart; that, on the other
hand, you will in your own way satisfy it. But, Conrad, your way is not
a good one, even were you determined, as we all suppose, to sacrifice
your life. I tell you, Conrad, God will not accept the offering. He
will reject it, as he did Cain's sacrifice, and your precious blood
will run down into the sand useless and unhonored."

The minister's deep voice had an unusually solemn tone, in this forest
stillness; and as he now, on account of his emotion, which beautifully
illuminated his plain face, was silent a few moments, it roared through
the branches of the giant pines as if God himself and not a man had
spoken.

So at least it seemed to good Aunt Ursul, and the same feeling was able
also to touch the wild and perverse heart of Conrad. His broad breast
rose and fell powerfully; his face had a peculiar, constrained
expression; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and his strong hands,
which grasped the barrel of his gun, trembled.

The minister began anew: "Your precious blood--I say, Conrad, precious,
as all human blood is precious, but doubly precious in the hour of
danger, thrice precious when it flows in the veins of a man to whom the
God of all has given the power to be the protection and defense of
those nearest to him. Moreover, Conrad, to whom much is given, of him
shall much be required. The rest of us are only like soldiers in rank
and file, and we need not be ashamed of it. But you are looked upon as
holding a more important position, and I need only to mention it so
that you may return to yourself. You will not shrink from a task that
you and you only of us all are fitted for. Nicolas Herkimer has learned
that negotiations are taking place between our enemies and the Oneidas;
that they are only delaying their attack until a treaty is concluded,
in order that then they may fall upon us with resistless power. You
know that our holding of the Oneidas will secure to us the other
nations on the lakes. You know that thus far they have been a wall to
us behind which we felt measurably secure. You have lived for years
with the Oneidas. You speak their language; you are highly respected by
them; you know the way to their hearts. Now then, Conrad, it is the
wish and will of Herkimer, our captain, that you go at once to them,
and in his name, and in that of the governor, assure them of the
yielding of all points lately in controversy between them and the
government to their satisfaction, and according to their own views, if
they will abide by the old protection and alliance which they entered
into with us--yes, if they only will not take part against us in the
present war. You notice and understand the proposition, so that I, a
man little accustomed to such things, need not go into particulars. I
now ask you, Conrad Sternberg, will you, as is your bounden duty, carry
out the orders of our captain?"

"It is too late," said Conrad, with broken voice.

"Why too late?"

"What you fear has already taken place. The Oneidas have joined the
French and the Onondagas. This morning--yes, an hour ago--I could yet
have gone to them unobserved to bring about what you propose. Now it is
impossible."

"How do you know it, Conrad?" asked the minister and Aunt Ursul, as if
out of the same mouth.

"Come," said Conrad.

He hung his rifle over his shoulder, and now walked before them both
diagonally through the forest, which was constantly becoming lighter
until the tall trees stood singly among the low bushes. Here he moved
carefully in a bent posture and indicated to the two by signs that they
should follow his example. At last he fell on his knees, bent a couple
of bushes slowly apart, and winked to the others to come up in the same
way. They did so, and looked through the opening, as through a little
window for observation in a door, on an unusual spectacle.

Beneath them, at the foot of the steep mass of rocks on the edge of
which they were, there spread out a broad, meadow-like valley, which on
the opposite side was encircled by precipitous, wood-covered rocks, and
through it in many windings a creek gently ran. On the bank of the
creek next to them there was a space covered with small, canvas-walled
tents and lodges, standing without order. Between the tents and lodges
there burned a couple of dozen fires whose rising smoke, glowing in the
evening sun, spread out above in a dark cloud, through which the scene
below looked more phantasmal. There was a mass of people in active
movement--French, some regulars and some volunteers, many without any
distinctive mark--and, in greater number, Indians, whose half-naked
bodies, adorned with variously colored war-paint, shone in the light of
the sun. The groups on the bank of the creek stood close together, and
it was not difficult to discover the reason. On the other side, the
band of Indians there gathered must have arrived recently. Some were
engaged in putting up their wigwams, others were kindling fires. The
most of them, however, stood at the edge of the creek talking with
those on the other side. The creek, of moderate breadth, had washed out
for itself a deep bed in the meadow-land, with steep sides. They could
not well come together without bridges, and these were hastily made for
the occasion with tree-trunks, while here and there the willful or
eager swam across, or, trying to jump across and in most cases falling
short, occasioned every time shouts of laughter among those looking on.

With beating hearts Aunt Ursul and the minister in succession observed
the spectacle which had to them such a terrible meaning. Then following
Conrad's whispered request, they withdrew as carefully as they had
crept up, back through the bushes into the woods.

"How many are there?" asked Aunt Ursul.

"Four hundred besides the Oneidas," replied Conrad. "The Oneidas are
quite as strong, if they allow all their warriors to be called into the
field. I have just counted two hundred and fifty. Anyhow, the others
will follow, otherwise they would find no preparations for the night."

"But will they go on at once?" asked Aunt Ursul.

"Certainly, for they know that the hours are precious. So you will
doubtless by to-morrow noon have them on your necks."

"_You_?" said the minister impressively. "You should say '_We_,'
Conrad."

Conrad did not answer, but went silently and without turning into the
border of the woods far enough from the edge of the plateau to prevent
their being seen. After going about two hundred steps they came to a
place where there was a deep ravine, which led from the heights above
by a sort of natural rock-stairs into the valley. Above, where the
stairs opened on the plateau, there was a narrow, deep-cut path
entirely blocked by a cunningly devised obstruction of tree-trunks,
stones and brush. Other stones, some of them very large, were pushed so
close to the sides of the ditch that with a lever, or perhaps even with
the foot, they could be slid of! on those coming up the path. It looked
as if a dozen strong men must have labored for days to perform such a
work. Conrad's giant strength accomplished it in a few hours.

"Here," said he, turning to his companions with his peculiar laugh,
"here I intended to wait until the last stone had been thrown off and
my last cartridge had been shot."

"And then?" asked Aunt Ursul.

"Break in two my rifle on the head of the first one that should come up
into the narrow path."

"And now?" asked the minister, seizing the hand of the wild man; "and
now, Conrad?"

"Now I will carry out the orders of Herkimer."

"For God's sake!" cried Aunt Ursul. "It would clearly be your
destruction; the Onondagas, your enemies, would pull you to pieces!"

"Hardly," replied Conrad. "The Oneidas would not consent to it--at
least without quarreling and strife. By this means already much would
be gained, and thus I would keep them back longer than if I opposed
them here, where I would in a few hours be killed. But I hope it will
come out better. I would already have gone over to the Oneidas this
morning, when they lay in the woods, but I had nothing to offer them.
Now this is different. Perhaps I may be able to talk them over. At
least I will try. Goodbye, both of you."

He reached out his hands to them. Aunt Ursul threw herself into his
arms as though she would not again let her beloved young man be
separated from her; but Conrad, with gentle force, freed himself and
said:

"There is not a minute to be lost. I must make a wide circuit in order
to come from the other side into the valley, and you have a long
journey. The dog I shall take along. She can be of no use to you on the
way home. Can you find the way without her, aunt? Now then good-bye;
good-bye all!"

"In the hope of again seeing you," said the minister.

Conrad's face was convulsed for a moment. "As God will," he answered,
in subdued tones.

The next minute they two were alone. For a moment they heard his
retreating steps. Then all was still.

"We shall not see him again," said Aunt Ursul.

"We _shall_ see him again," said the minister, looking at the purple
clouds shining through the branches. "God helps the courageous."

"Then he will help him," said Aunt Ursul. "A more courageous heart than
that of my young man beats in no human breast. God be gracious to him!"

"Amen!" said the minister.

They turned back on their homeward journey, back through the primitive
forest, over which now the evening shadows were fast gathering.




                              CHAPTER XIV


The minister had not deceived himself when, at their departure from the
block-house, he thought he read in Lambert's and Catherine's manner
that they both perceived what he and Aunt Ursul contemplated, in spite
of all their precautions. Indeed, while Lambert was guiding the labor
of fortifying, and was himself taking an active hand in the work, his
mind was constantly oppressed with heavy cares about Conrad. His heart,
full of love, and needing love, could not bear the thought that his
brother should be so unhappy while he was so happy--that for the first
time he could not give the best part of the sunshine of life to him for
whom hitherto no sacrifice had been too heavy. No, not him could he
give--but he would give--not for all the world--not for his soul's
salvation. Here there was no doubt--there _could be_ no doubt--for this
would have been the basest treachery toward himself, and toward the
dear girl who had trustfully given him her pure maiden heart. And
yet--and yet--

Catherine's heart was scarcely less sad. She held Lambert so
unspeakably dear, and her first experience must be that she was
bringing to her beloved great suffering as her first gift. She saw,
indeed, no mark of sorrow in the countenance of the precious man. She
had learned too well to read those smooth and honorable lines. There
was no dark cloud on that open brow, no gloomy falling of those mild,
blue eyes, no sad contortion about the mouth, which otherwise so
readily and often opened in friendly smiles, but which was now closed
so fast.

Thus they, without needing to speak about winning back Conrad, had
thought and brooded; and when Aunt Ursul, yesterday, brought in the
minister, and scarcely left the good man time to sit down and eat his
dinner, but soon drove him up again and with him left the block-house,
and a few minutes after returned and called Pluto out, as though she no
longer placed any reliance on Melac, her watch-dog at home, Lambert and
Catherine gave each other an expressive look, and as soon as they were
alone fell into each other's arms and said:

"Perhaps, perhaps everything will come out right yet."

However sad the minds of the lovers, they kept their sadness to
themselves; and the rest were little inclined to trouble themselves
about an anxiety which was so carefully concealed from them; though
Richard Herkimer, Lambert remembered, had said it was a pity that
Conrad should just at this time show his folly. The others had spoken
in a similar manner, but with that on their part the matter was laid
aside. With or without Conrad, they were determined to do their duty;
and this certainty raised the spirits of the brave young men to
unwonted courage. One added circumstance gave a peculiar impulse to
this courageous feeling and enabled them to look upon the very
important position in which they found themselves in an entirely poetic
light. The excellent young men were all quite enchanted with
Catherine's beauty and loveliness, and gave to this enchantment the
most harmless and delightful expression. If Catherine at the table said
a friendly word, there shone five pairs of white rows of teeth. If she
expressed a wish, or only indicated one with her eyes, ten hands were
stretched out--ten legs began to move. Wherever she went or stood, she
had two or three attentive listeners at her side who watched with the
greatest eagerness and sought to anticipate her wishes. It was a
conviction firmly fixed in the mind of each that for Catherine's sake
they were willing not only to be killed, but to die in the most
barbaric manner the cruel nature of the Indian had discovered. So, on
one occasion, when Lambert was not present, in an overflow of heroism,
on Richard Herkimer's special suggestion, they all five had agreed and
had shaken hands on it and promised that, whichever of them should
outlive the rest, before he died himself he would kill Catherine, so
that she should not fall into the enemy's hands.

This agreement of tragic sacrifice did not in any way hinder the five
heroes from trying their wit on each other, and, together with their
sympathy for the beautiful maiden, to tease and joke each other in
every way. Poor Adam had to suffer the most from this habit. They tried
to convince the good young man that Lambert had laid away a bullet
which was not intended for the French, and that they were not surprised
that Lambert should think no one dangerous to him besides Adam. Fritz
Volz and Richard Herkimer--that he well knew himself--had already made
their selection. Jacob Ehrlich and Anton Bierman were secretly weeping
for their treasures that they had left on the Mohawk. Adam had already
for years been going about like a roaring lion seeking whom he might
devour; that he was a wandering terror and a constant care for all
bridegrooms and unmarried young men; that the others had been commanded
to come, but that Adam came of his own accord; and that he should tell
them to what end and for what purpose, as he stood guard last evening,
he had sung so sweetly: "How beautiful shines on us the morning star,"
that Catherine had cried and said: "Now listen to Adam, who sings
sweeter than a nightingale."

Adam did not fail to reply to his tormentors. They should only concern
themselves about their own affairs; that he knew what he was about.
Then again, in a weeping tone, he would beg and beseech the friends to
tell him truly whether Lambert had indeed formed such a shameful
purpose, and whether Catherine had really found and declared his
singing so fine, and that in this life she only wanted one thing and
that was a blonde lock from the head of the singer to take with her
into the grave. The friends swore high and low that each of them had
heard it out of Catherine's own mouth, and that each of them had
promised to fulfill her special wish, and that Adam should now freely
give up his scalp-lock before the Indians took it by force and the skin
with it. Adam resisted, and called for help until the surrounding space
resounded with shouts and laughter.

It was in the afternoon when Lambert, driven from the house by unrest,
walked slowly along the bank of the creek up toward the woods. He
stopped a moment and shook his head as the noise from the house struck
his ear, and then again went on. They could joke and laugh, those good
comrades, in this hour of sorrow and need, which oppressed his soul
with leaden weight. And yet they well knew that this hour might be
their last. They also had parents at home and sisters, and one and
another had a girl whom he loved, and the life of these people also
hung on the cast of a die. But then, they were all much younger than
he, and took life so much lighter--as light as one must take it at last
and be done with it so as not to sink under the burden. Was he not
already too old to load more on himself--he, to whom the old burden was
already so heavy to carry? How often had the rest jeered him on this
account; called him Hans the dreamer; using as a by-word when anything
more serious occurred: "For this let God and Lambert Sternberg
provide." Yes, indeed, he had learned to know care early enough, when
his mother died leaving him alone with his peevish, passionate father;
and he had to play the mediator between him and the wild Conrad, and
their relatives and the rest. And then, after his father's death, all
the labor for the common good fell upon him, if there was any failure
on the part of the neighbors. So he had always labored and cared, and
had well understood this spring that he must undertake the difficult
and responsible mission to New York. He had undertaken it, as he did
everything which was too burdensome for others, without thinking of
pay, without expecting the thanks of those who had given him their
commission. Now heaven had so arranged that he should find her from
whom one look, one word was pay and thanks for all that he had
done--for all that he had suffered. The pay was too great, the thanks
were too much. He had perceived this from the beginning. Who could
honorably begrudge him his unexpected happiness, obtained after fearful
misgivings? Not the neighbors, who would hardly forgive him for
preferring a stranger to their daughters. Not Aunt Ursul, who, though
her honest and righteous disposition strove against it, yet would
rather see Conrad in his place. And Conrad himself--his only, his
beloved brother--yes, that was the deepest grief; that was the drop
bitter as gall, poured into the sweet draught of love, and which he
must always taste. It ought not to be so. If this should not be so what
purpose, what meaning had the rest? Why care for a future that could no
more bring him true joy? Why cling to a life that had become so
burdensome to him? Why undertake the heavy conflict that was imminent?
Why hope to come out of this battle as victor? There the grass was
growing in his fields. Must it be trampled? There his cattle were,
wandering in the wilderness. Must they fall as booty into the hands of
the enemy? There stood his barn. Must it go up in flames? There was his
strongly built house. Must he and she be buried beneath its fragments?

Thus, in deep, oppressive anxiety, Lambert stood at the edge of the
forest, looking over the valley that contained his home, glittering in
the bright sunlight. There was no noise in the wide circuit except the
buzz of insects over the soft bending grass and flowers of the prairie,
and an occasional bird-note from the branches of the dark-green pines
which, motionless, drank in the heat of the sun. Was then everything
which had passed through his brain a heavy, fearful dream, out of which
he could wake when he pleased? Was the signal pile there, which with
its smoke and fire should warn the rest down the creek, erected for a
joke? Did Aunt Ursul, who, full of care, had the evening before sent
Fritz Volz at a late hour to tell them that she had certain knowledge
that the enemy was quite near, and that they should keep the sharpest
watch--did Aunt Ursul only imagine that it was so?

There! What sound was that which that instant struck his sharp ear out
of the woods? There was a cracking and crushing in the dry branches, as
when a deer runs with full speed through the bushes. No, It is not a
deer. He now clearly heard another sound which could only be produced
by the foot of a man running for his life. Nearer and nearer, down the
creek, down the steep, stony, bushy path, in mad leaps, as when a stone
is pushed down over a slope, came the runner.

A sudden, joyful fear rushed through Lambert's soul. In all the world
but one foot could step like that--his brother's foot. In breathless,
intense emotion he stands there, his wildly beating heart almost
leaping from his breast. He wishes to call, but the sound sticks in his
throat. He tries to run to meet him, but his knees tremble under him.
At the next moment Conrad, breaking through the bushes, is at his side,
and his faithful dog with mighty leaps comes with him.

"Conrad!" cried Lambert, "Conrad!"

He rushed to his brother and encircled him in his arms. All that had
just now troubled him so dreadfully is forgotten. Now come what will,
it is worth while to live, and also, if it must be, to die.

"Are they coming, Conrad?"

"In one hour they will be here!"




                               CHAPTER XV


The certainty that now the decisive moment had come, and the joy that
the same moment had brought back his brother, again gave Lambert a
touch of the peculiarities on account of which young and old valued and
praised him--calmness, circumspection, confidence. Without hesitating a
moment as to what was next to be done, and calling to his brother to
notify those in the house, he hastened across the plank over the creek
to the hill yonder, where the signal pile had been erected, which from
there could be clearly seen from Ditmar's house away from the creek. A
minute later there rose from the lofty, ingeniously constructed
wood-pile a dark column of smoke, pushing its way up like the stem of a
mighty palm, and spreading out above in the still air like an immense
crown. Then, a quarter of a mile down the creek, there came up a dark
cloud of smoke. Uncle Ditmar has kept good watch. The signal has been
answered and carried farther. In a quarter of an hour they will also
know on the Mohawk, six miles farther, that here on the creek the enemy
has broken in. Then back over the creek--a strong push--the fastening
is broken off. The plank floats away.

"Are you here yet, Conrad? How the rest will rejoice! Come!"

Lambert hastened ahead. Conrad followed with slow, lingering steps. Was
it fatigue after the dreadful running? Had the blood with which his
leathern jacket was dotted spurted from his veins?

So asked Lambert, but received no answer. And now they had reached the
temporary bridge, where the friends who stood on the wall received them
with loud cheers. Lambert hastened up and shook the hand of each brave
youth with heartfelt joy. Conrad still lingered at the foot of the
bridge. His face was pale, and as if emaciated with bodily pain, or an
inward conflict. He had sworn with a terrible oath that he would not
again cross the door-sill of his father's house, or his blood should
pay the forfeit. The strong, wild heart shrunk together in his breast.
His blood--why should this trouble him? He had not spared it. He had, a
quarter of an hour ago in a battle which he alone could take up--which
he alone could bring to a happy issue--put it at hazard. But his
word! his word! that he had never yet broken--which he now shall
break--_must_ break, as his clearer soul tells him--as his noble heart
bids him, in spite of all.

As he still lingered, Catherine was suddenly standing among his
cheering companions. On her account had he renounced his father's
house. As if blinded by lightning he turned away his gaze. But she is
already at his side, has seized his hand with a soft pressure that he
cannot withstand, leads him with gentle force, that he must follow, up
the bridge, over the wall, down into the inner yard, where his
comrades, jubilant, press around him, and at the same time, with a
sudden impulse, seize him, raise him up on high, and with jubilation
and noise carry the fugitive--the returned one--into the house, as
though they would with bantering cunning drive from their prey the
demons lurking about the door-sill.

So it also seemed to him. Conrad is back, the best rifle in the colony.
They had resolved without Conrad to do their duty. But the quick looks,
the short words which they interchanged, the faces illuminated with
joy, these said plainly, "It is far better so." If only Aunt Ursul and
Christian Ditmar were here the dance might begin at once. "They could
be here already," thought Catherine. "Hurrah! there they come!" cried
Richard Herkimer, who had gone up on the gallery to see better; "and
there are three. The third is the minister. Hurrah! and again, hurrah!
and once more, _hurrah_!"

Who now has time or inclination to ask the breathless ones how the
minister came to be here? Enough that they are here at the right time,
and that at last the bridge can be thrown off and that the door can be
barricaded with the strong beams lying ready. There they now are,
locked in their wooden fortress in the midst of the wilderness, miles
away from friends, depending solely on themselves, on their firm
courage, on their strong arms, on their keen eyes--two women, nine men,
nine rifles. Though the minister is not to be counted, as he would not
know how to use a rifle even if he wished to fight, yet Aunt Ursul has
a rifle, and knows how to use it, and will fight; that can be depended
on.

Now the parts are assigned and everything and every man is in place. In
one division of the lower, thoroughly protected room is Hans, whom
Lambert will not sacrifice. In another are the sheep, which were taken
in out of compassion, and now bleated piteously in the darkness. On the
gallery of the upper story, behind the breastwork, lay Lambert,
Richard, Fritz Volz, Jacob Ehrlich and Anton Bierman, with the barrels
of their rifles in the port-holes. On the floor above, at the
trap-doors of the high, shingled roof, stood Conrad, Aunt Ursul and
Christian Ditmar, whose far-carrying rifle was, in his time, the dread
of the enemy. With them is the minister, who, though he is not a good
shot, well understands how quickly and properly, to load a rifle. This
service Adam Bellinger performs for those on the gallery. Catherine is
to bring food and drink, when necessary, to those who are to fight.
Lambert and the rest have adjured her not in any way to expose herself
to danger. She, however, secretly purposed, in case of need, to take
Adam's rifle, which now lay idle, and follow Aunt Ursul's example.

Silence reigned in the house. Whoever should see it standing there,
still, gloomy, locked, would suppose it forsaken by its former
occupants--a piece of abandoned property in the all-embracing
wilderness. Silent in its entire circuit lay that wilderness under the
ban of the hot afternoon sun. Silent was the green prairie on which
scarcely a single flower bent, or grass-stem waved. Silent the woods
whose treetops reached up unmoved toward the blue sky, from which
several white clouds looked down motionless. Deepest silence! Forest
stillness!

There!--a loud, long drawn-out, many-voiced whoop, whose dreadful echo
is reflected back from surrounding objects. From the forest break forth
at once fifty half-naked Indians in their colored war-paint, swinging
their rifles and tomahawks, and, leaping forward with wild jumps,
hastening over the prairie, one part coming directly toward the
block-house, the other going around so as in a short time to rush up
from all sides. The house stood as silent as before. There was no reply
to the demand which the on-rushing enemy kept repeating with yells and
cries and whoops. The first are already within a hundred paces--then
comes the answer, a short, sharp sound from four German rifles fired at
the same moment, so that but one report was heard. Four Indians fall
not to rise again. The others run on more rapidly, and had already
reached the surrounding wall, when again is heard the crack of four
rifles and again four Indians fall--one, having been shot through the
heart, leapt up high, like a deer.

This they had not expected. A third salvo might follow the second, and
there yet lay between them and the house a ditch and wall. Who could
tell whether this third salvo might not be more dreadful than the first
two? No one wants it tried. In a moment all turn and run, in like
haste, back to the woods, which they had not reached until again four
shots are sent after them. Two more sink dead at the feet of the
French, who had kept concealed in the woods, observing the bloody
spectacle before them, full of horror and compelled to confess that the
first attack, which they had cunningly left to their Indian allies, had
altogether failed.

Yes, the first attack had been repelled. Those in the block-house shook
hands with each other, and then again grasped their freshly loaded
guns. One of the Indians raised up on his hands and knees, and again
fell back, and then again raised up. Richard Herkimer said: "That is my
man. The poor devil shall not be in pain much longer." He raised his
rifle to his cheek, but Lambert laid his hand on his shoulder saying:
"We shall need every shot, Richard, and he has enough." The Indian, in
a death-cramp grasped the grass, twitched a few times, and then lay
rigid like the rest of his comrades.

"What will happen now? Will they seek us again in the same way, or
choose some other mode of attack? and what then?" The young men debated
the matter, and Aunt Ursul, who had come down from the upper floor,
joined in the discussion. Their views were divided. Lambert thought
that they had soon enough found out how strong the fastness was, and
how much they must sacrifice in this most dangerous pitfall until the
rest should actually reach the house. It also appeared how large the
number was, since thus far it was clear that they had had to do with
only a part, and that their principal force was still in the woods.

"Lambert is right," said Aunt Ursul. "They are one hundred and fifty
strong--fifty French and a hundred Onondagas."

"Ninety-two," said Anton Bierman, "for eight lie there."

Jacob Ehrlich usually laughed when Anton said something witty. This
time he did not laugh. He was silently reckoning how many Indians,
leaving out the French, would fall to his share if there really were so
many. Jacob Ehrlich could not make out the exact number, but he reached
the result that under all the circumstances it would be hard work.

The others looked inquiringly at Aunt Ursul. That the report came from
Conrad was certain, but how had he learned the fact? Aunt Ursul now
related her yesterday's expedition with the minister. But thus it could
not be concealed that, without her interference, Conrad would not now
have been here. But about this she did not wish to speak, at least
today. She also said that Conrad had found and watched the camp of our
enemies; that he had counted them head by head, and that they had
divided into two parts; that of these the larger, a hundred French, as
many Onondagas and at least two hundred Oneidas, had started for the
Mohawk, and would doubtless already have arrived, but that the Oneidas
had no heart for the affair, and that it was at least possible that at
the decisive moment they would fall away and go over to their old
treaty friends.

"If it is so, we can also reckon on help from my father," said Richard
Herkimer.

"We will reckon on nobody but ourselves," said Lambert.

"What are the fellows up to now?" said Anton Bierman.

Out of the woods in which the enemy for the last half-hour was entirely
concealed there came three men--one Frenchman and two Indians. They had
laid aside their arms. Instead of them they carried long rods to the
ends of which white cloths were tied. They swung the rods back and
forth and made the cloths flutter. So they came up slowly as though
they were not quite sure, and wished to assure themselves whether those
on the other side were disposed to regard a flag of truce. Anton
Bierman and Jacob Ehrlich felt no inclination to do this. They thought
that the scoundrels, the year before, had never shown mercy, and that
for their part they would send them to the devil with their white rags
and, though there were but three, they were worth three charges of
powder. Lambert had enough to do to hush the excited men, and to make
it clear to them that they, as Germans, should not be the first to do
that.

Meanwhile those who had come to ask a parley had approached to within a
short distance of the house. Lambert appeared on the gallery, after he
had told the others not to let themselves be seen, and called out:
"Halt!"

The three stood still.

"What do you want?"

"Is there one among you who speaks French?" asked the Frenchman in
German.

"We speak only German," answered Lambert. "What do you want?"

The Frenchman, a tall, dark-complexioned man, placed himself in a quite
theatrical posture while he set his flag of truce on the ground with
his left hand and raised the right hand toward heaven, and called out:

"I, Roger de St. Croix, Lieutenant in the service of his most Christian
Majesty, Louis XV., and commander of his majesty's troops here present,
and of the allied Indians of the tribe of the Onondagas, herewith bring
to your knowledge and inform you that, if you at once and on the spot
lay down your arms and give yourselves up to our mercy or severity, we
will grant life to you, your wives and children, nor will we injure you
in your possessions, but will leave everything--house, barn and
cattle--undestroyed. But should you be mad enough to make further
resistance against the formidable power of six hundred well-armed and
disciplined soldiers of his majesty, and as many more brave and
dreadful Indians, then I swear--I, Roger de St. Croix--that not one of
you shall get away with his life--neither you, nor your wives, nor your
children--and that we will level with the dust your houses and barns,
so that nobody could again find the place where they stood."

The man, who spoke German glibly enough, though with a French accent,
had spoken louder and louder until at last he shrieked. He now let his
gesticulating right arm fall to his side and stood there in an
indifferent attitude, like a man conducting a spiritless conversation
which he can stop or continue just as the other may prefer.

"Shall I answer for you?" asked Anton as he struck his rifle.

"Still!" said Lambert, and then raised his voice: "Go back to your
people and tell them that we here, united German men, one as all and
all as one, are resolved to hold the house, come what will; and that we
are quite confident that we can hold it, even if you were twelve
hundred instead of one hundred and fifty, counting in the ten already
lying there."

The Frenchman made a quick motion of surprise, and turned to his
attendants who had been standing there without altering their posture,
or stirring. He appeared to say something to them which arrested their
attention. Then he again took his former theatrical posture and called
out:

"From what you last said, though it is false, I infer that there is
with you a certain Conrad Sternberg. I promise you that not a hair
shall be bent and a hundred Louis d'or besides, if you will deliver to
us this Conrad Sternberg."

"The man of whom you speak," replied Lambert, "is with us, and you have
already twice heard the crack of his rifle, and if you so please you
can hear it again."

"But this Conrad is a traitor, who has cheated us in the most shameful
manner," cried the Frenchman. "I am no traitor," called Conrad, who now
stood beside his brother. "I told you I would escape as soon as
possible. Since you this time thought your six could hold me you will
the next time set a dozen to guard me."

"The next time I will begin by having laid at my feet, first your scalp
and then your head," cried the Frenchman in loudest tones.

"Enough!" called Lambert. "I give you ten minutes to get back into the
woods. He of you who then yet lets himself be seen outside does it at
his peril!"

The Frenchman doubled up his fist, and then bethought himself as to
what, under all circumstances, a Frenchman owes himself against German
blockheads, and taking off his large, three-cornered hat, made a low
bow, turned on his heel, and walked at first slowly, then faster and
faster toward the woods, until he fell into a regular trot, evidently
to spare the Germans the shame of shooting, after the ten minutes had
elapsed, at the messenger of his Most Christian Majesty.

"Lord of my life!" cried Anton. "Now I first know him. That is the same
fellow, Jacob, who three years ago came to us begging, and who
afterward hung about the neighborhood half a year. He called himself
Mr. Emil, and said that he had shot a comrade in a duel and had on
that account to flee. But others claimed that he was an escaped
galley-slave. Afterward he wanted to marry Sally, Joseph Kleeman's
black girl, but she said she was too good for a fellow like that, and
Hans Kessel, Sally's treasure, once pounded him as limber as a rag,
after which he disappeared. Lord of my life! He gives himself out here
as a lieutenant, and speaks of his Most Christian Majesty, and is
willing to leave us our dear lives--the mean plate-licker, the
gallows-bird!"

So honest Anton scolded and abused, and asserted that if he did not get
this Mr. Emil, or Saint Croix, or whatever the fellow's name was, in
front of his rifle, to him the whole sport would be spoiled.

The rest would gladly have known what Conrad had before had to do with
the French, but their curiosity remained unsatisfied, for Conrad had
immediately again gone up, and soon the attention of the besieged was
directed to another side. From the barn-yard arose a column of smoke,
which every moment became thicker and blacker, until the flames burst
forth from the mass. The enemy had made his threat true. It seemed to
be a useless barbarity, for the barn was too far from the block-house
for the flames to leap across, though the wind, which now began to
rise, was blowing toward the house, driving along smoke and sparks. But
this whole war was only a continuous chain of such barbarities. This
morning Lambert had mentally seen what he now actually saw. He had
wrought all this with his own hands, which now the more firmly grasped
the barrel of his gun. Then there cracked a shot above and another, and
Aunt Ursul called down the stairs: "Be watchful! Eyes left! In the
reeds!"

The meaning of these words and of the shots fired from above soon
became clear. The attention of the besieged had not been uselessly
directed to the land side. In the thick sedge and reeds, of man's
height, with which the shores of the creek were overgrown, one could
come from the woods within a hundred paces of the house. It was a
difficult undertaking, for the ground was a bottomless bog as far as
the reeds grew, and where they ended the creek was deep and rapid. But
they had ventured to do it, and it soon appeared with what result. From
among the reeds here and there shots were soon being fired with
increasing rapidity. There must indeed have been a considerable number
who had came by that dangerous way, and had concealed themselves along
the shore in spite of all that those in the house could do to free
themselves from neighbors so unwelcome and dangerous.

Wherever an eagle-feathered head or a naked arm showed itself, or the
barrel of a gun glistened, yes, if the sedge only moved, a bullet
struck. But though a few dead bodies floated down the creek, others lay
dead or wounded among the rushes and others still had sunk in the
morass, the remaining number was so great and the daring enemy was so
embittered by his heavy losses, it seemed that the worst must and would
come. Besides, the evening wind kept increasing, causing the tops of
the rushes to wave hither and thither, so that it was difficult and
often impossible to follow the movements of the unseen enemy, and many
a precious charge was wasted. This evidently made the attacking party
more bold. The fire-line was constantly receding from the shore. The
more frequent bullets rained against the breastwork and roof. It might
be expected at any moment that a rush would be made from the reeds and
that, having rapidly run across the short distance that still separated
them from the house, they would attempt to storm it.

But it soon became manifest that on the opposite side of the house they
were by no means willing to set the decision of the day on a single
card. Suddenly, at the edge of the woods, there began to be a stirring
and a moving as if the forest itself had become alive. Broad shields of
man's height cunningly contrived out of pine branches were pushed out
or carried, one could not tell which, in a connected line over the
smooth level meadow toward the house. The progress was slow, but
onward, until they had approached within rifle shot, and then the
marksmen behind the shields opened a lively fire. The shields were
indeed no sure protection for the attacking party, but they made the
aim of the beleaguered more difficult, and moreover compelled them to
be more watchful, and to direct their rifles toward two sides at once.

But the oncoming foe had not yet exhausted his ingenuity. From the
barn-yard, where everything was entirely burned down, they at the same
time came rolling before them Lambert's large casks, and, as soon as
they were near enough, they set them up and so made a wall that could
every moment be shoved farther, and offered a much more sure protection
than the pine-branch shields. Anton Bierman had laughed loudly when he
saw the casks coming toward the house, but after he had fired at them a
few times, clearly without effect, he laughed no more, but said softly
to his friend Jacob: "Things begin to look serious!"

It was indeed serious. So far no one had received apparent injury,
except that one and another was badly cut by splinters torn from the
breastwork by bullets, and bled profusely. But the battle had now
lasted for three hours. It was a warm piece of work, under the June
sun, and the cheeks of the fighters glowed, and the barrels of their
guns were hot. Furthermore, many an eye, when it could turn away a
moment from the unaccustomed bloody work toward the sun, had observed
with care how rapidly it had been sinking during this hour which would
not end--how low it already stood. So long as its light lasted a
handful of men might keep up the doubtful strife against a crafty,
cunning enemy far outnumbering them, and leave it undecided. But how
soon the sun would set, and when it did, and darkness came on, it would
cover the valley for hours with an impenetrable veil, since now the
moon did not rise till after midnight; and under the protection of the
night and of the fog the enemy could slip up and storm the place. True
the beams of the lower story were thick enough, and the only door was
barred, but a dozen axes could in a short time break in the door and,
however thick the beams, they could not withstand fire. Then the
beleaguered would have no choice but to give their living bodies to the
flames, or with their arms in their hands try to open a way from the
closely surrounded, burning house. And even then their destruction was
sure. Whoever was not killed at once would, on account of the number of
the pursuers, be overtaken and brought down.

Such was the situation. It could not be doubtful either to the
besieged, or besiegers, who had long been convinced that the house was
defended by no more than ten rifles. But however much this certainty
may have raised their desire to fight and their thirst for vengeance,
the courage of those in the blockhouse remained unbroken. Nobody
thought of flight, which was indeed impracticable; nor of surrender,
which equally meant a painful death. All were resolved to defend
themselves to the last breath, and sooner to kill themselves, or each
other, than to fall alive into the hands of the cruel enemy.

Lambert and Catherine had already before said this to each other, and
during the battle they had more than once signaled the death covenant
to each other with silent, intelligent glances. But the courageous girl
was--not only to her lover--like a banner which waves before the bold
soldier in battle and on which his eyes rest with an enthusiasm that
overcomes death. Whoever looked at the pale, still, determined,
restlessly helpful maiden, drank from a spring of courage and strength,
so that his fearful heart beat higher and his tired limbs were again
strengthened. To the commands constantly repeated from the first: "Stay
away, Catherine! Don't stand there, Catherine!" she paid no attention.
Where she knew she was needed, there she was; above with the men under
the hot roof; below with those on the gallery, giving one a drink;
taking a discharged rifle from the hands of another; giving to another
a gun that she herself had loaded. She had also learned quickly, as she
learned everything on seeing it, that Adam Bellinger, though he
reasonably exerted himself and the sweat ran in streams from his
forehead, was not equal to his task, and that the marksmen often called
in vain for their guns.

So she was again occupied in the inner room when Aunt Ursul, Conrad,
old Christian and the minister came down from above, while also those
in the gallery stopped shooting and it became still outside.

"What is going on?" asked Catherine.

"They are about to visit us with a second storming party," said
Lambert, coming in from the gallery. "It is well that you have come
down. Every man of us must now be on the gallery. We shall soon enough
have them under us."

Others also came in to hear what would happen. They were assembled in
full count.

"I think," said Lambert, "we had better not shoot until they are on the
wall, for now they will not turn back again, and then we have eight of
them sure. Afterward five of us will give attention to the others,
while the rest put a stop to the work of the scoundrels below us. Are
the rifles all loaded?"

"Here!" and, "Here!" said Catherine and Adam, handing out the last two
rifles.

It so happened that the two were Lambert's and Conrad's rifles. As they
both at the same time came up it was not by mere chance that both took
their guns with the left hand, for at the next moment their right hands
clasped, and thus they stood before Catherine, who, blushing deeply,
took a step back, fearing that her nearness should anew break the bond
of the brothers. But the minister laid his hand on the hands of the
brothers as they held each other with a firm grasp, and said: "As these
two who had for a moment lost each other, and in the hour of danger
have again found each other, to be and to remain, in life and in death
and in eternity united, so let us all, dear brothers and sisters, thank
and praise God that we here stand together so united, and that, in this
solemn hour, which according to all human calculation is our last, we
are fulfilling the chief commandment, and are loving one another. Since
life can offer us nothing greater than this, though we should live a
thousand years, let us without murmuring take our departure from this
dear life. We do not give it up lightly. We have defended it as well as
we could. But we are only flesh and blood, and this our fortress is
wood. God, however, who made us in his own likeness and breathed his
breath into us--God is a spirit and a strong tower."

As the minister uttered the word, then, as though the Spirit to whom
they were praying had inspired it, the sentiment it awakened passed
through the little assembly and Luther's battle-hymn sounded forth as
if from one mouth:


            A Strong tower is our God--
            A good defense and armor;
            He keeps us free in every need
            Which us has yet befallen;
            The old and angry fiend,
            Earnestly he means,
            Great might and much craft
            His dreadful armor is,
            On earth there's nothing like him.

            With our own might nothing's done;
            We surely are quite helpless;
            There fights for us the very Man,
            Whom God himself has chosen.
            Ask you who is He?
            He's called Jesus Christ,
            The Lord Sabaoth,
            There is no other God;
            The field he'll not surrender.

            And were the world of devils full,
            Would they us wholly swallow,
            So fear we not so very much;
            We yet shall surely prosper.


There they were, on every side, as though the creek and the prairie and
the woods had spit them out at once. They came on in wild leaps,
swinging axes and guns and brush-bundles. French and Indians, hunters
and dogs, rushed on to battle. In a moment they flew across the narrow
intervening space, down into the ditch, up the wall, in frenzied
motion, digging with their nails, one on another's shoulder, up, up.

Up but not over--at least not the first.

As soon as a head emerged from behind the wall, a pair of elbows put
firmly on it, a breast exposed, came the deadly bullet, and the
venturesome enemy fell back into the ditch. This fate befalls the
first, the second, the third and the fourth. The fifth at last succeeds
and the sixth; and now half-a-dozen at once, and at another point also
a couple. These are enough. The object is gained. Words of command are
called out. Those who are still on the other side of the wall retire,
forming about the house in a double circle and continually firing.
Again, and then for the last time, to rush forward so soon as those who
had pressed to the house should have finished their work.

It will to all appearance soon be finished. Sharp axes cut down the
door. The ax-swingers understand their work. They have before opened
breaches in many a barricaded house. And those on the other side,
toward which the wind was blowing, understood their business equally
well. They have often before placed a firebrand against a house they
could not otherwise take. Those above shot well through the round holes
in the bottom of the gallery, and one or two of those below must pay
for their bravery with their lives. But the others are covered, and the
rain of bullets which pours upon the house divides the force of the
besieged who must turn to every side at once. Yet a few strokes and the
door lies in fragments and out of the thick smoke which comes up over
there the flame will soon burst forth.

The beleaguered know it. An attempt to avert the threatened danger must
be made. They must risk a sally. Two of them must do it. Which two?

"I!" called out the brave minister. "Why is it not suitable for me?"

"I!" cried Conrad. "This is my business!"

"Conrad's and mine," said Lambert with determined voice, "and no one
else. Away, the rest of you, to your posts. You, Richard and Fritz,
guard the door. Here are the two axes; and now, in God's name--"

The beams which bar the door are taken away so as to uncover a strong
plank, fitting closely into the opening and against which the blows
from without are directed, the door having been shattered. The last
beam is drawn away; the plank falls; the breach desired by the
besiegers is made, and out of the breach rush Lambert and Conrad side
by side, old Christian Ditmar swinging aloft an ax with his nervous arm
and crying: "Here! Germany forever!"

It is the first word that has to-day fallen from his lips, and it is
his last for to-day and forever. Pierced at once with three bullets,
cut and crushed by a dozen knife cuts and ax-blows he falls, but his
big-hearted purpose is attained. He broke the first onset of the
attacking party. He made a way for the two young men behind him. They
rushed into this passage-way. Nothing can withstand Conrad's giant
strength. His blows fall like hail. He rages among the crowd like a
jaguar among sheep. Yes, it is a jaguar that has come among them--the
great jaguar, as they call him at the lake, who had already torn so
many of the tribe of Onondagas. They are willing to fight with the
devil himself, but cannot bear to look at the flaming eyes of the great
jaguar. They rush away toward the wall, over the wall, into the ditch,
followed by Conrad. Lambert, who had already pulled apart the burning
pile of wood, called after him that he should go no farther but come
back, for the others, who had seen the shameful flight of their
comrades, now directed their fire at the two. Bullet after bullet
strikes the wall near Lambert. It is a wonder that he is yet uninjured;
yes, that he is alive. But he does not think of himself. He only thinks
of his lion-hearted brother. He rushes toward the raging one, who is
fighting near the wall with three Indians, the last within the
enclosure. They shall not get over it again. He seizes one, whirls him
on high and dashes him against the wall where the unlucky fellow lies
with a broken neck. The two others improve the moment and climb over
the wall. One of them, before sliding down into the ditch, discharges
his gun.

"Come in, for God's sake, Conrad!" called Lambert. He seizes Conrad by
the hand and drags him away. They had reached the door when Conrad
staggered like a drunken man, Lambert caught him about the body.

"It is nothing, dear brother," said Conrad and straightened himself up.
But in the door he fell down. A stream of blood gushed from his mouth
and moistened the door-sill which he had sworn never again to cross
without the shedding of his blood.

The door is again barred more strongly than before.

The fire that Lambert had pulled apart wastes away powerless at the
base of the house. The house is saved; but how long? The little company
that guards it is poorer by two fighting men. The rest, exhausted by
their frightful labor, are more dead than alive. The ammunition is used
up to within a few charges, and the sun pours its last red rays over
the lonely battle-field in the midst of the surrounding forest. In a
few minutes it will go down. Night--the last night--will come on.

"Your brother is dead," said the minister to Lambert.

"He has gone before us," said Lambert. "Stay near me, Catherine."

The minister and Catherine had been occupied below with Conrad. The
minister was skilled in the healing art, but here his skill could
accomplish nothing. Conrad had opened his beautiful blue eyes, with a
bewildered look, but once. They for a moment became bright and clear,
as he saw Catherine's face through the mist of death. Then he lay
still with closed eyes. There was deep peace in the yet wild and
battle-angered face. He breathed but once again. Then his head sunk to
one side as if he were now sleeping quietly. The sun sinks behind the
forest, spreading its blood-red evening-light over those on the
gallery.

"On what do the fellows wait?" asked Jacob Ehrlich.

"Eternity will be long enough for you, fool," replied Anton Bierman.

"If father means to send us succor he must be quick about it," said
Richard Herkimer, with a sad smile.

"Hurrah! hurrah! and again hurrah!" cried Adam Bellinger, who now
rushes down the stairway and dances about like a crazy person, and
then, crying loudly, falls into the minister's arms.

"Poor boy! poor boy!" said the minister.

Lambert went round to the other side of the gallery, from which one
could look down the creek to the edge of the woods where the road makes
a turn and then disappears to reappear for a short distance a little
further on. On this side and on that there was nothing in the road. The
slight hope which had kindled in Lambert's breast was at once
extinguished. Sadly he shook his head.

And yet, what sound is that? Lambert clearly hears a dull, strong
sound, while, at the same moment, the noise of the enemy is stilled.
The sounds become heavier and stronger. Lambert's heart beats as though
it would split.

Suddenly there came around the corner of the woods one, two, three
riders in full run and a moment later a large company; twenty, thirty
horses, under whose hoofs the ground trembles. The riders swing their
rifles and "Hurrah! hurrah!" sound forth so that Lambert hears.

He hastens to his comrades. "Have you all loaded? Then up and out! Now
it is our turn. Now we will drive them!"

A sharp pursuit--a wild pursuit on the darkening prairie after the
French and Indians, who in frenzied flight rush toward the woods while
German rifles crack after them.




                              CHAPTER XVI


It was during the fifth summer after these events that the August sun,
which rose above the woods in beaming glory, brought the Germans on the
creek, on the Mohawk and on the Schoharie, a joyful day. To-day bison
and deer might go their way through the primitive forest unmolested.
The hunter drew the charge out of his rifle and put into it a large
load of loose powder. To-day cattle and sheep were left to themselves
in the pasture-fields. The herdsman had brushed his Sunday-coat clean,
and had stuck a large bunch of flowers in his hat. To-day there was
rest from pressing labor, in field and mart. The farmer, much as he had
to do, the herder, the hunter, and all the world, young and old, men,
women and children, were to keep a great holiday--a great, wondrous,
fine peace-festival. For there was again peace on earth--which had
drunk the blood of her children in streams for seven long years. Peace
over in the old home; peace here in the new one. There the hero of the
century, old Fritz, the great Prussian king, was done with his enemies,
and had sheathed his sword. So here too the battle-ax could be buried.

During the last years it had indeed become dull enough. Since, in the
spring of 'fifty-eight, the attack of the French and Indians had been
so bravely resisted by the Germans, they had made no further invasion
across the border, protected as it was by such a warlike race. As now
Fort Frontenac had fallen and Quebec was surrendered the following
year. England's great victory was won, and what yet followed were only
the flying sparks and the last flickering of a great conflagration. But
for a German shingle or straw roof sparks are also dangerous, and the
master of the house had yet constantly gone to bed burdened with
anxiety, and the next morning went to his labor with his rifle on his
shoulder. Now the last trace of uncertainty had disappeared, and the
bell in the little church sounded out "Peace, peace," over sunny fields
and still woods.

Out of the woods and over the fields they came in festive groups, on
foot, on horseback, young and old, adorned with flowers, sending
friendly greetings from afar, heartily shaking each other's hands if
they happened to meet at the crossroads; engaging in friendly
conversation as they went through the smiling valley between the Mohawk
and the creek toward the hill on which the church stood, which to-day
could not hold all who came with pious thankfulness.

"But God does not dwell in temples made by human hands. He is clothed
with light. Heaven is His throne and the earth is His footstool." That
is the text of the sermon which the worthy minister, Rosenkrantz,
to-day delivers to his congregation, gathered around him in a wide
circle under the bright sky and on the green earth. In words that fly
on eagle's wings over the assembly he praises the great, good God, on
whom they, in their need, had called, and who, out in the wild woods
and on the lonely prairie, had delivered them from danger. He calls to
remembrance those who had fallen during the war, and says that not in
vain did they shed their precious blood for house and home in which man
must live, that in the circle of his own family, at his own hearth, he
may show the virtues of love, of helpfulness and patience, and live
according to the image of Him who made him. He declares that those who
survive are called and chosen, after the fearful labor of the war, to
the valuable works of peace, and that all hatred and quarreling and
envy and strife must henceforth be banished from the congregation,
otherwise the dead would rise and complain and ask: "Why did we die?"

More than once the voice of the minister trembled with deep feeling. He
had gone through it all himself. Every word came from the bottom of his
heart and so it reached the heart. There was scarcely one of the
assembled hundreds whose eyes remained free from tears; and when the
benediction was pronounced, that the Lord who had now so evidently let
the light of His countenance fall on them and had given them peace,
might also further bless and preserve them and give them peace, Amen!
the word touched every heart, and hundreds of voices responded: "Amen!"
"Amen!" as the wind roars through the tops of the trees of the forest.
Then the roaring grew louder and mightier, as it spread in sacred
accord over the sunny fields in the hymn.

"Now let us all thank God."

Then they retired stiller than they came.

But the festival of peace should also be one of joy, and there were
with the old far too many who were young to keep in their joy very
long. At first a few lively words were jokingly interchanged. Then a
lusty fellow had a funny conceit which, in that beautiful, bright
sunshine, he could not possibly keep to himself. The old smiled. The
young men laughed. The girls giggled. The laughter and the joyfulness
were so inspiring and communicative that the guns went off as if of
themselves, and an hour later one who did not know better might have
thought that Herkimer's house, which the French had not ventured to
attack in the frightful years of '57 and '58, was being stormed on the
festival of peace by German young men.

This indeed was unnecessary. Nicolas Herkimer's large and hospitable
house had to-day all its doors opened wider than usual, for men and
women--for all who lived oh the Mohawk, on the creek and on the
Schoharie--for all that were German, or that were ready to rejoice with
the Germans--all were invited, and were welcome to drink of Nicolas
Herkimer's beer and eat of his roast, and, happy with the joyful, help
to celebrate the great festival. As all had been invited so nobody
stayed at home, unless it might be a mother who could not leave her
children alone, or one to whom it was utterly impossible to come. Big
John Mertens had come, and, simpering, mingled with the guests, his
thumbs in the pockets of his long vest, except when he drew somebody
aside secretly to ask him if it was not very nice in John Mertens that
he gave precedence to Nicolas Herkimer, and that he did honor to his
festival by his presence; that he could just as well entertain such a
multitude of guests and perhaps a little better. Hans Haberkorn was
there, and acted very modestly and reminded one and another that he had
then already said that three ferries across the river were not too
many. Now there were six ferrymen and all made a good living. Some
thought that Hans Haberkorn talked in that way because he was owing
Nicolas Herkimer every cent that the ferry and beer-house were worth,
and a couple of hundred dollars besides. But who had time now to
investigate such things?

Surely not the young men and maidens who, on the level ground adjoining
the house, beneath the shadow of an immense basswood tree, were
ceaselessly swinging in the dance to the stirring music of a violin,
two fifes and a drum. Parents and old people, who sat under the long,
projecting roof where it was cool, and thoughtfully emptied one pitcher
after another, had also something better for their entertainment. They
remembered, as to-day they well might, what they themselves had
suffered in the home across the sea, or had, at least, been told by the
father, or the grandfather--how the bitter enemy, the Frenchman, had
scorched and burned, up and down the beautiful green Rhine, and how
their own lord by his servants had seized what the French had left, so
that, in his grand castles, he with his courtiers might gormandize and
have brilliant feasts and great hunts, while the poor farmers,
oppressed by service and burdens of every kind, were starving of sheer
hunger. And also the priesthood and the tithes and other endless
miseries of the holy Roman empire of the German nation. Yes, yes, it
had looked badly over there, and though since the great king of
Prussia, old Fritz, had intervened and had followed bravely on his
crutch, it was a great deal better, yet one could live here freer and
better, if one considered it well, being under no lord; and the
minister, though all were not like Rozenkrantz, would allow one to talk
with him and a man's life could be joyful, especially now that the
Frenchman has crept into his hole and the war is at an end.

Then they talked about the war. That was an inexhaustible subject. In
that everybody had taken part--had himself fought and had his part to
tell--his altogether peculiar experiences, which, if to no one else, at
least to the narrator were of deep interest. They recalled the chief
events of the war, wherein all agreed that the interest was supreme.
These were recounted a hundred times and were gladly repeated once
more, and which clothed themselves in a wonderful garb, though the
eye-witnesses were yet for the most part alive.

Of these peculiarly noteworthy events, none was more remarkable than
the battle at Sternberg's house in the year '58. And when the deed had
been told that nine men had for six or seven hours resisted one hundred
and fifty well-armed enemies, incredible as it was, there was that in
the history which gave it for the moment a romantic color, even in the
eyes of the indifferent. The quarrel of the brothers over the beautiful
maiden, who was now the handsomest wife in the whole district; the
reconciliation of the brothers in the last hour, and the succeeding
heroic deaths of Christian Ditmar and of Conrad Sternberg--the oldest
and the youngest of the company--and both dying so nobly that one could
not do better than to follow them, as Aunt Ursul said, when they were
both laid in the cool earth. Yes, she had soon enough followed
them--the wonderfully brave souls--she who was so rough, while her
heart was so soft that she did not want to live longer, nor could she
without her husband, with whom she had spent forty years in joy and
sorrow--but mostly in sorrow--and without her wild, strong and last but
perhaps most dearly beloved son. Yes, yes, that he was, to Aunt
Ursul--the Indian, and, as they already before had called him and still
called him at the lake, the great jaguar--Conrad Sternberg, wild and
strong. Were he still living Cornelius Vrooman, from Schoharie, would
not have carried off the victory away from the young men on the Mohawk.
What Cornelius did was indeed no small matter, to draw a sleigh by the
tongue, standing in the sand, loaded with twelve heavy men, half a foot
from its position. Conrad would have drawn the sleigh five feet with
Cornelius on his shoulders. Yes, yes, Conrad Sternberg was endowed with
superhuman strength. Would he otherwise have been able to overcome
twenty-four Indians who had already pressed forward to the house? And
was it not more than human courage for him, whom every Onondaga had
sworn to kill, notwithstanding to go to their camp and set the
Onondagas and Oneidas against each other and both against the French
and then to deliver himself up to the Onondagas, as they insisted on it
that they might feel assured, and to tell them that he would stay with
them as long as they could hold him; and the simpletons, who might have
known better, had thought that six men were sufficient for this, and
had placed the six, with Conrad as guide, in the van. Yes, he had
showed them the way there whence none of them would return. So had he
protected the Sternberg house, and, if one correctly considered it, all
the houses on the creek and the Mohawk, since the Oneidas went back,
and the French and Onondagas might be glad that they had not in the
evening been followed more sharply, since half of the cavalry had been
sent to relieve the Sternberg house. Yes, that was a man, that Conrad,
the like of whom would probably never again appear among them--a Samson
among the Philistines, "who slew them with the jaw-bone of an ass," as
the minister to-day said, in his sermon, though he did not mention
Conrad's name. The minister himself knew how to tell about it, for he
was there and could say more if he would; but he said no more about it,
as soon as he came in his discourse to the chapter. Now, perhaps a
servant of peace should not be blamed if he did not wish to remember
that he had laid low six Indians that day with his own hand. In their
gossiping exaggeration and envy they proceeded to add that if Lambert
Sternberg seldom speaks of his brother he may possibly have his
grounds, since many suspect that Catherine loved Conrad better
than him, and that Lambert Sternberg, in spite of his comfortable
condition--since he is now also Aunt Ursul's heir--and in spite of his
handsome wife and beautiful children, is the unhappiest man in the
whole valley.

"Be still! There comes Lambert with Herkimer; and what peculiar little
fellow have they forked up?"

Nicolas Herkimer and Lambert Sternberg approached these confident
dividers of honors, whose conversation had just taken so interesting a
turn, and introduced to them Mr. Brown, of New York, who in Albany,
where he had business, had heard of the peace-festival on the Mohawk,
and as he was a friend of the Germans, had at once decided to come up
and help them celebrate the day.

The honor-conveyers welcomed the stranger, and said that it was a great
honor which they knew how to prize, and asked whether Mr. Brown and
Lambert--Herkimer had already gone away--would not sit down at their
table and empty a glass to the well-being of his majesty the king. Mr.
Brown was ready for this, and also drank to the welfare of the Germans,
but then left, with the promise that later he would come again with
Lambert; that he wished first to look about a little over the place
where the festival was being held.

Mr. Brown had not made the long journey from New York to Albany and
from Albany here merely on his own business, nor out of pure sympathy
with the Germans. He came at the suggestion of the Government, which
had at last comprehended the value of the German settlements on the
Mohawk, and further up toward the lake, and had formed the earnest
purpose to advance them as far as possible. Mr. Brown, being peculiarly
fitted to further this end on account of his long business intercourse
with the Germans, was intrusted with this mission.

He was to communicate with the leading Germans, such as Nicolas
Herkimer and Lambert Sternberg, and take their proposals into
consideration. To this end he had held a long conference with Nicolas
Herkimer, and now imparted his views to his younger friend while
walking with him about the place, Lambert attentively listened in
silence. It did not occur to him that the Englishman had in reality the
interests of his nation in his eye when he spoke of the advantages
which should grow out of it all to the Germans. Nor did Mr. Brown deny
it.

"We are a practical people, my dear young friend," said he, "and do
nothing for God's sake. Business is business; but this is an honorable
one--I mean one by which both sides are the gainers. Naturally you will
at first serve as a dike and a protecting wall against our enemies, the
French. You will help extend and establish our control of the continent
which will yet come to us. But if you so pull the chestnuts out of the
fire for us will not the sweet fruits be just as good for you? When you
strike for King George do you not just as well fight for your own house
and home? What then, man? So long as one does not stand firm in his own
shoes one must lean against others. See that you Germans reach a
position so that you can enter the market of the world, dealing for
your own advantage and in view of your own danger. You will have to
be satisfied either to be taken in tow by us, or, if you prefer, be
road-makers and pioneers for us."

The earnest man had, according to his custom, at last spoken very loud,
and with it gesticulated with his little lean arms, and thrust his
Spanish cane into the ground. Now he looked around frightened, grasped
Lambert under the arm, and, while he let himself be led farther away,
proceeded in a more gentle manner and in lower tones:

"And now I will intrust you with something, my young friend, which I
would not for all the world should come to Mrs. Brown's ears, and which
also, on your own account, you may keep to yourselves. You remember,
Lambert, how five years ago, you were in New York, and we stood on the
quay and saw your country people leave the ship, poor simpletons! It
rained powerfully, and the dismal scene did not by this means become
brighter. Well, this morning, while we were here wandering about, I
have been constantly forced to think and have said to myself: What
immeasurable life-vigor must stick in this race, which needs but a
single life-time to change from half-starved, shy-looking, all-enduring
slaves, into lusty, broad-shouldered, independent freemen. How
immeasurably must such a race have suffered to sink so deep! How high
it must rise when these sufferings are removed; when its good instincts
are left to themselves; when fortune permits it freely to unfold its
great strength which slumbers hidden and is yet scarcely waked up! How
high it must ascend! How wide it must spread! What is beyond its
reach? Do not laugh at me, my young friend. I tremble when I think of
it---when I think what a host like this, as yet without leaders, only
subject to the law of gravity, can overcome--_must_ overcome--when it
has learned to take care of itself; to lead and to march in rank and
file. However this may be, so much is already clear to me; you who here
stand on the border are evidently now our vanguard. You prepare your
countrymen a way. You are truly German pioneers. But again, not a word
of this when you this fall come to New York. My neighbors already call
me 'the Dutchman' and Mrs. Brown will not again--Well, as we are now
speaking of the women, where, then, is your wife, with whom you at that
time so hastily went away? I think I will to-morrow lay claim to your
guest-friendship for a day, and so would be gladly introduced to my
beautiful entertainer."

"My wife," said Lambert, "is not here. She--"

"I understand, I understand," interrupted the talkative old man.
"Little household events happen in the best of families. I understand."

"Now," said Lambert, laughing, "our youngest is already half-a-year
old, and my wife was unwilling longer to stay away from the children;
and besides, this joyous day is also one of sorrowful thoughts to my
family."

"I know, I know," said the old man. "Your brother--we heard of it in
New York. What do you want, man? Your brave deed is in the mouth of the
people. The ballad singers sing it on the streets:"


           "A story, a story,
            Unto you I will tell,
            Concerning a brave hero--"


"I should say, two brave heroes. But the people like to keep to one.
You must tell me all this circumstantially when I come to your house
to-morrow."

"This I will cheerfully do," replied Lambert, "and so I will to-day
take my leave of you. The sun is already low, and I would like to be
home in good time."

Lambert took the old man to the giver of the feast, who sent his hearty
compliments to his wife, and promised to come with the guest to-morrow,
to have farther consultation, and to visit his daughter-in-law on the
way, who had already fourteen days ago presented him with a grandson.
Richard, after Aunt Ursul's death, had bought the property from
Lambert, and was now his nearest neighbor. Richard came up and proposed
to accompany Lambert. Fritz and August Volz would probably also have
done this, but their wives did not yet want to leave the festival,
which was now at its highest point. And then the women had taken it
into their heads that this was the day on which their brother Adam must
lose his long-maintained freedom and lay it down at the feet of
Margaret Bierman, Anton Bierman's sister. Adam came up. His eyes were
red. He no longer stood quite firm on his long legs. He put his arms
around Lambert, and assured him with hot tears that a man has but one
heart to give once for all, but that if it was necessary for Lambert's
comfort--a necessity that he fully understood--to follow Jacob
Ehrlich's example, given a short time before, he would marry a Bierman
even if a man has but one heart, and Margaret didn't sound half as nice
as a certain other name, that should not cross his lips, "for a man has
but one heart and his heart--"

Here came Anton Bierman and his brother-in-law Jacob to fetch the
faithless knight, and Anton, who had overheard the last words, assured
Lambert that Adam was a perfect fool, though at bottom a goodhearted
and brave fellow, and that the old Bellingers had left behind, besides
the visible property, a nice round sum, and that if his sister Gretchen
was willing he was satisfied. What did Lambert say to it?

Lambert said, that he had always given Adam that advice and would also
do it under present circumstances; and to the same effect he spoke to
Richard Herkimer as, two hours later, they two trotted up the creek.

"Adam," said he, "is not so great a fool. The fellow has mother wit
enough, and, if he can be easily teased, so his antagonists for the
most part do not escape without some scratches. He is also brave, when
he must be. That he showed at that trying time in the block-house. In
wedlock one must be brave. Therefore I always advise to found a new
home when it is suitable. And then, Richard, the German only increases
when he has his own hearth, when he can care and work for house and
home, for wife and child. So I salute the smoke that rises from a new
hearth like a banner about which will gather a group of German
pioneers, as Mr. Brown calls them, who lead forward the host that shall
come after us."

Richard looked at his companion with some astonishment. Lambert had
always so few thoughts and words. He would have liked to ask whether
Lambert expected to be one among the coming host, but they had just
reached his house, and Lambert bade him give his compliments to Annie,
pressed his hand and trotted away.

Yes, Lambert always had but few thoughts for others, but not for
Catherine. He could tell her everything that his warm heart suggested
and about which his ever active mind was busy. She, the handsome, good,
intelligent one understood it, felt as he did, and often made things
clear that he could not himself see through. What would she say to the
proposition that Mr. Brown had made to him? "On, Hans, old fellow, yet
a little trot."

Hans was satisfied. The five years had not weakened his strength. He
could, if a long, sharp trot was necessary, yet make a round of ten
miles with any horse.

But this time the well-known endurance of the active horse was not put
to the test. He had scarcely trotted two hundred yards and was
beginning to enjoy it, when his master, with a sudden jerk, held him
up, and at the next moment sprang out of the saddle.

"Catherine!"

"Lambert!"

"How are the children?"

"All well. Conrad did not want to go to bed before he had seen you."

"And little Ursul?"

"To-day got her third tooth."

"And little Catherine?"

"Sleeps wonderfully."

They walked on along the bank side by side, leading Hans by the bridle.

"Are you yet thinking about it?" said Catherine.

Lambert did not need to ask about what he should be thinking. One does
not forget things like that. It seemed as though it had occurred but
yesterday.

And yet there had been great changes since that evening. Where they
then walked along the seldom-trodden meadow-path they now went through
waving grain fields on a well-beaten road in which a deep, firm
wagon-track was cut. There were fields with suitable buildings in all
directions, as far as the edge of the woods, which in many places had
been cleared far back. Where portions of the old wood pasture showed
themselves between the cultivated fields, there large gates had been
put, over which here and there a colt or a heifer coming up looked with
large, languid eyes, while farther on in the pasture the rest were
feeding in the rank grass. On through meadows and fields were seen the
shingle roofs of large farmsteads, beside which the old barns which had
been burned down would have looked very mean. On the place where the
block-house was, there now stood forth a stately stone-house in whose
gable the windows were glowing in the evening sun.

Yes, there have been great changes since that evening which to Lambert
seemed like yesterday, as though he had never lived without his wife
and children.

They had put Conrad to bed, and Catherine with her soft voice had sung
the wild boy to sleep, while the other two little ones, with their red
cheeks, were slumbering quietly in their beds. They sat before the door
in the honeysuckle-arbor, through which the soft, summer evening wind
was murmuring.

Lambert told his wife the events of the day, and about Mr. Brown, and
they discussed Mr. Brown's plan of extending the German settlements
farther up the creek, over to the Black River--if possible to Oneida
Lake--and that Mr. Brown, Nicolas Herkimer and himself were to buy the
land, and that he was to be the leader and patron of the new settlers.
He also told Catherine what the old man had said about the future of
the Germans in America, and how the Englishman feared that this hardy,
industrious race would yet surpass the English and take from them their
dominion over the continent.

"Such language from the mouth of so intelligent a man might make us
very proud," said Catherine.

"So I thought too," said Lambert. "And yet, when I reflect upon it more
fully it makes me quite sad."

"How do you mean, Lambert?"

"I mean the industry, the pains, the labor, the strength, the courage,
the energy, we must use to carry it so far here will be such that they
might perhaps better remain in the old home. As you have painted your
father to me, mild, generous, helpful, learned; such as was my father,
quick, decided, looking far ahead; such as was Uncle Ditmar, unbending,
stern and refractory; such as was our noble Conrad and Aunt Ursul. What
precious blood this new land has already drunk and in the future will
drink! And does it produce the right fruit from the costly seed. I
know not. Granted that we attain all which our old friend promises
us--though it sounds like a fable--but granted that we reach it, and
that we should once have to divide the rich inheritance with the
English, should we remain Germans? I doubt it, and you yourself,
Catherine, have taught me to be doubtful. What would I be without you?
And you had to come to me from the old home--could come only from the
old home. In your soul there sounds a deeper, purer tone, just as in
the beautiful songs that you brought over with you. Will a still deeper
tone sound in the souls of our children? What will be their condition
should it die out?"

Lambert was silent. Catherine leaned her head on his shoulder. She
found no answer to a question that had already filled her breast with
sad anxiety.

"And so," Lambert continued, "my heart is divided into two parts.
To-morrow, when the old friend comes, I will go out with him into the
woods and show him the way by which those who are to come must go, and
point out the places where they must build their huts. But as for
myself, I would rather tear down the huts and take you and the
children--how goes the song, Catherine, with which you just now sung
our boy to sleep, the dear, old song, out of the dear, old home--


           "Were I a wild falcon,
            I would soar aloft."


And he pointed toward the east where, in the holy mother-arms of the
dark night, the glory of the coming day was slumbering.



                                THE END








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