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 gra.s.s-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 pa.s.sed 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 part.i.tioned 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 gra.s.s-stems in the meadow, and the rushes at the edge of the creek, scarcely bent. The b.u.t.terflies pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 gra.s.s-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 gra.s.s-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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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 ent.i.tled: "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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d! 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 pa.s.s 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 sh.o.r.eward 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 sh.o.r.e. She had antic.i.p.ated 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.