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 sh.o.r.e 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: "G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing and I am fully rested."

Lambert wished to make a reply, but the words refused to pa.s.s 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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, G.o.d-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 gra.s.s, 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 sh.o.r.e.

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, ma.s.sive 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 n.o.body 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.