tongue wither, if I remain mute to-day.  Good God!  child, are you out
of your senses?  Everything has been crammed into your poor head, but
to be sure it isn't written in the books, that when people find out what
happened in Porto, and that you married a baptized child, a Gentile,
a Christian girl......"

At these words the doctor rose, laid his hands on the servant's shoulder,
and said with grave, quiet earnestness.

"Whoever speaks of that, may betray it;  may betray it.  Do you
understand me, Rahel?  I know your good intentions, and therefore tell
you: my wife is content here, and danger is still far away.  We shall
stay.  And besides: since Elizabeth became mine, the Jews avoid me as an
accursed, the Christians as a condemned man.  The former close the doors,
the latter would fain open them; the gates of a prison, I mean.  No
Portuguese will come here, but in the Netherlands there is more than one
monk and one Jew from Porto, and if any of them recognize me and find
Elizabeth with me, it will involve no less trifle than her life and mine.
I shall stay here; you now know why, and can go to your kitchen."

Old Rahel reluctantly obeyed, yet the doctor did not resume his seat at
the writing-table, but for a long time paced up and down among his books
more rapidly than usual.




CHAPTER VI.

St. John's day was close at hand.  Ulrich was to go to the monastery the
following morning.  Hitherto Father Benedict had been satisfied, and no
one molested the doctor.  Yet the tranquillity, which formerly exerted so
beneficial an effect, had departed, and the measures of precaution he now
felt compelled to adopt, like everything else that brought him into
connection with the world, interrupted the progress of his work.

The smith was obliged to provide Ulrich with clothing, and for this
purpose went with the lad and a well-filled purse, not to his native
place, but to the nearest large city.

There many a handsome suit of garments hung in the draper's windows,
and the barefooted boy blushed crimson with delight, when he stood before
this splendid show.  As he was left free to choose, he instantly selected
the clothes a nobleman had ordered for his son, and which, from head to
foot, were blue on one side and yellow on the other.  But Adam pushed
them angrily aside.  Ulrich's pleasure in the gay stuff reminded him of
his wife's outfit, the pink and green gowns.

So he bought two dark suits, which fitted the lad's erect figure as if
moulded upon him, and when the latter stood before him in the inn, neatly
dressed, with shoes on his feet, and a student's cap on his head, Adam
could not help gazing at him almost idolatrously.

The tavern-keeper whispered to the smith, that it was long since he had
seen so handsome a young fellow, and the hostess, after bringing the
beer, stroked the boy's curls with her wet hand.

On reaching home, Adam permitted his son to go to the doctor's in his new
clothes; Ruth screamed with joy when she saw him, walked round and round
him, and curiously felt the woollen stuff of the doublet and its blue
slashes, ever and anon clapping her hands in delight.

Her parents had expected that the parting would excite her most
painfully, but she smiled joyously into her playmate's face, when he bade
her farewell, for she took the matter in her usual way, not as it really
was, but as she imagined it to be.  Instead of the awkward Ulrich of the
present, the fairy-prince he was now to become stood before her; he was
to return without fail at Christmas, and then how delightful it would be
to play with him again.  Of late they had been together even more than
usual, continually seeking for the word, and planning a thousand
delightful things he was to conjure up for her, and she for him and
others.

It was the Sabbath, and on this day old Rahel always dressed the child in
a little yellow silk frock, while on Sunday her mother did the same.  The
gown particularly pleased Ulrich's eye, and when she wore it, he always
became more yielding and obeyed her every wish.  So Ruth rejoiced that it
chanced to be the Sabbath, and while she passed her hand over his
doublet, he stroked her silk dress.

They had not much to say to each other, for their tongues always faltered
in the presence of others.  The doctor gave Ulrich many an admonitory
word, his wife kissed him, and as a parting remembrance hung a small gold
ring, with a glittering stone, about his neck, and old Rahel gave him a
kerchief full of freshly-baked cakes to eat on his way.

At noon on St. John's day, Ulrich and his father stood before the gate of
the monastery.  Servants and mettled steeds were waiting there, and the
porter, pointing to them, said: "Count Frohlinger is within."

Adam turned pale, pressed his son so convulsively to his breast that he
groaned with pain, sent a laybrother to call Father Benedict, confided
his child to him, and walked towards home with drooping head.

Hitherto Ulrich had not known whether to enjoy or dread the thought of
going to the monastery-school.  The preparations had been pleasant
enough, and the prospect of sharing the same bench with the sons of
noblemen and aristocratic citizens, flattered his unity; but when he saw
his father depart, his heart melted and his eyes grew wet.  The monk;
noticing this, drew him towards him, patted his shoulder, and said: "Keep
up your courage!  You will see that it is far pleasanter with us, than
down in the Richtberg."

This gave Ulrich food for thought, and he did not glance around as the
Father led him up the steep stairs to the landing-place, and past the
refectory into the court-yard.

Monks were pacing silently up and down the corridors that surrounded it,
and one after another raised his shaven head higher over his white cowl,
to cast a look at the new pupil.

Behind the court-yard stood the stately, gable-roofed building containing
the guest-rooms, and between it and the church lay the school-garden,
a meadow planted with fruit trees, separated from the highway by a wall.

Benedictus opened the wooden gate, and pushed Ulrich into the playground.

The noise there had been loud enough, but at his entrance the game
stopped, and his future companions nudged each other, scanning him with
scrutinizing glances.

The monk beckoned to several of the pupils, and made them acquainted with
the smith's son, then stroking Ulrich's curls again, left him alone with
the others.

On St. John's day the boys were given their liberty and allowed to play
to their hearts' content.

They took no special notice of Ulrich, and after having stared
sufficiently and exchanged a few words with him, continued their
interrupted game of trying to throw stones over the church roof.

Meantime Ulrich looked at his comrades.

There were large and small, fair and dark lads among them, but not one
with whom he could not have coped.  To this point his scrutiny was first
directed.

At last he turned his attention to the game.  Many of the stones, that
had been thrown, struck the slates on the roof; not one had passed over
the church.  The longer the unsuccessful efforts lasted, the more evident
became the superior smile on Ulrich's lips, the faster his heart
throbbed.  His eyes searched the grass, and when he had discovered a
flat, sharp-edged stone, he hurriedly stooped, pressed silently into the
ranks of the players, and bending the upper part of his body far back,
summoned all his strength, and hurled the stone in a beautiful curve high
into the air.

Forty sparkling eyes followed it, and a loud shout of joy rang out as it
vanished behind the church roof.  One alone, a tall, thin, black-haired
lad, remained silent, and while the others were begging Ulrich to throw
again, searched for a stone, exerted all his power to equal the 11
"greenhorn," and almost succeeded.  Ulrich now sent a second stone after
the first, and, again the cast was successful.  Dark-browed Xaver
instantly seized a new missile, and the contest that now followed so
engrossed the attention of all, that they saw and heard nothing until a
deep voice, in a firm, though not unkind tone, called: "Stop, boys!
No games must be played with the church."

At these words the younger boys hastily dropped the stones they had
gathered, for the man who had shouted, was no less a personage than the
Lord Abbot himself.

Soon the lads approached to kiss the ecclesiastic's hand or sleeve, and
the stately priest, who understood how to guide those subject to him by a
glance of his dark eyes, graciously and kindly accepted the salutation.

"Grave in office, and gay in sport" was his device.  Count von
Frohlinger, who had entered the garden with him, looked like one whose
motto runs: "Never grave and always gay."

The nobleman had not grown younger since Ulrich's mother fled into the
world, but his eyes still sparkled joyously and the brick-red hue that
tinged his handsome face between his thick white moustache and his eyes,
announced that he was no less friendly to wine than to fair women.  How
well his satin clothes and velvet cloak became him, how beautifully the
white puffs were relieved against the deep blue of his dress!  How
proudly the white and yellow plumes arched over his cap, and how delicate
were the laces on his collar and cuffs!  His son, the very image of the
handsome father, stood beside him, and the count had laid his hand
familiarly on his shoulder, as if he were not his child, but a friend
and comrade.

"A devil of a fellow!"  whispered the count to the abbot.  "Did you see
the fair-haired lad's throw?  From what house does the young noble come?"

The prelate shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling:

"From the smithy at Richtberg."

"Does he belong to Adam?" laughed the other.  "Zounds!  I had a bitter
hour in the confessional on his mother's account.  He has inherited the
beautiful Florette's hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father.
With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I'll call the boy."

"Afterwards, afterwards," replied the superior of the monastery in a tone
of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction.  "First tell the
boys, what we have decided?"

Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his
side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.

As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman
exclaimed:

"You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell.  What should you say,
if I left him among you till Christmas?  The Lord Abbot will keep him,
and you, you...."

But he had no time to finish the sentence.  The pupils rushed upon him,
shouting:

"Stay here, Philipp!  Count Lips must stay!"

One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regained
protector, another kissed the count's hand, and two larger boys seized
Philipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back into
their circle.

The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran down
into the old count's beard, for his heart was easily touched.  When he
recovered his composure, he exclaimed:

"Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay!  And the Lord Abbot has
given you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and light
a St. John's fire.  There shall be no lack of cakes and wine."

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  Long live the count!"  shouted the pupils, and all
who had caps tossed them into the air.  Ulrich was carried away by the
enthusiasm of the others; and all the evil words his father had so
lavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentleman--all Hangemarx's abuse
of knights and nobles were forgotten.

The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon as the boys knew that
they were unobserved, Count Lips cried:

"You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone over the roof.  I saw
it.  Come here.  Over the roof?  That should be my right.  Whoever breaks
the first window in the steeple, shall be victor."

The smith's son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from the mischief and
feared his father and the abbot.  But when the young count held out his
closed hands, saying: "If you choose the red stone, you shall throw
first," he pointed to his companion's right hand, and, as it concealed
the red pebble, began the contest.  He threw the stone, and struck the
window.  Amid loud shouts of exultation from the boys, more than one
round pane of glass, loosened from the leaden casing, rattled in broken
fragments on the church roof, and from thence fell silently on the grass.
Count Lips laughed aloud in his delight, and was preparing to follow
Ulrich's example, but the wooden gate was pushed violently open, and
Brother Hieronymus, the most severe of all the monks, appeared in the
playground.  The zealous priest's cheeks glowed with anger, terrible were
the threats he uttered, and declaring that the festival of St. John
should not be celebrated, unless the shameless wretch, who had
blasphemously shattered the steeple window, confessed his fault,
he scanned the pupils with rolling eyes.

Young Count Lips stepped boldly forward, saying beseechingly:

"I did it, Father--unintentionally!  Forgive me!"

"You?" asked the monk, his voice growing lower and more gentle, as he
continued: "Folly and wantonness without end!  When will you learn
discretion, Count Philipp?  But as you did it unintentionally, I will
let it pass for to-day."

With these words, the monk left the court-yard; and as soon as the gate
had closed behind him, Ulrich approached his generous companion, and said
in a tone that only he could hear, yet grateful to the inmost depths of
his heart:

"I will repay you some day."

"Nonsense!" laughed the young count, throwing his arm over the shoulder
of the artisan's son.  "If the glass wouldn't rattle, I would throw now;
but there's another day coming to-morrow."




CHAPTER VII.

Autumn had come.  The yellow leaves were fluttering about the school
play-ground, the starlings were gathering in flocks on the church roof
to take their departure, and Ulrich would fain have gone with them, no
matter where.  He could not feel at home in the monastery and among his
companions.  Always first in Richtberg, he was rarely so here, most
seldom of all in school, for his father had forbidden the doctor to
teach him Latin, so in that study he was last of all.

Often, when every one was asleep, the poor lad sat studying by the ever-
burning lamp in the lobby, but in vain.  He could not come up with the
others, and the unpleasant feeling of remaining behind, in spite of the
most honest effort, spoiled his life and made him irritable.

His comrades did not spare him, and when they called him "horse-boy,"
because he was often obliged to help Pater Benedictus in bringing
refractory horses to reason, he flew into a rage and used his superior
strength.

He stood on the worst terms of all with black-haired Xaver, to whom he
owed the nickname.

This boy's father was the chief magistrate of the little city, and was
allowed to take his son home with him at Michaelmas.

When the black-haired lad returned, he had many things to tell, gathered
from half-understood rumor, about Ulrich's parents.  Words were now
uttered, that brought the blood to Ulrich's cheeks, yet he intentionally
pretended not to hear them, because he dared not contradict tales that
might be true.  He well knew who had brought all these stories to the
others, and answered Xaver's malicious spite with open enmity.

Count Lips did not trouble himself about any of these things, but
remained Ulrich's most intimate friend, and was fond of going with him
to see the horses.  His vivacious intellect joyously sympathized with the
smith's son, when he told him about Ruth's imaginary visions, and often
in the play-ground he went apart with Ulrich from their companions; but
this very circumstance was a thing that many, who had formerly been on
more intimate terms with the aristocratic boy, were not disposed to
forgive the new-comer.

Xaver had never been friendly to the count's son, and succeeded in
irritating many against their former favorite, because he fancied himself
better than they, and still more against Ulrich, who was half a servant,
yet presumed to play the master and offer them violence.

The monks employed in the school soon noticed the ill terms, on which the
new pupil stood with his companions, and did not lack reasons for shaking
their heads over him.

Benedictus had not been able to conceal, who had been Ulrich's teacher
in Richtberg; and the seeds the Jew had planted in the boy, seemed to be
bearing strange and vexatious fruit.

Father Hieronymus, who instructed the pupils in religion, fairly raged,
when he spoke of the destructive doctrines, that haunted the new
scholar's head.

When, soon after Ulrich's reception into the school, he had spoken of
Christ's work of redemption, and asked the boy: "From what is the world
to be delivered by the Saviour's suffering?" the answer was: "From the
arrogance of the rich and great."  Hieronymus had spoken of the holy
sacraments, and put the question: "By what means can the Christian surely
obtain mercy, unless he bolts the door against it--that is, commits a
mortal sin?" and Ulrich's answer was: "By doing unto others, what you
would have others do unto you."

Such strange words might be heard by dozens from the boy's lips.  Some
were repeated from Hangemarx's sayings, others from the doctor's; and
when asked where he obtained them, he quoted only the latter, for the
monks were not to be allowed to know anything about his intercourse with
the poacher.

Sharp reproofs and severe penances were now bestowed, for many a word
that he had thought beautiful and pleasing in the sight of God; and the
poor, tortured young soul often knew no help in its need.

He could not turn to the dear God and the Saviour, whom he was said to
have blasphemed, for he feared them; but when he could no longer bear his
grief, discouragement, and yearning, he prayed to the Madonna for help.

The image of the unhappy woman, about whom he had heard nothing but ill
words, who had deserted him, and whose faithlessness gave the other boys
a right to jeer at him, floated before his eyes, with that of the pure,
holy Virgin in the church, brought by Father Lukas from Italy.

In spite of all the complaints about him, which were carried to the
abbot, the latter thought him a misguided, but good and promising boy,
an opinion strengthened by the music-teacher and the artist Lukas, whose
best pupil Ulrich was; but they also were enraged against the Jew, who
had lured this nobly-gifted child along the road of destruction; and
often urged the abbot, who was anything but a zealot, to subject him to
an examination by torture.

In November, the chief magistrate was summoned, and informed of the
heresies with which the Hebrew had imperiled the soul of a Christian
child.

The wise abbot wished to avoid anything, that would cause excitement,
during this time of rebellion against the power of the Church, but the
magistrate claimed the right to commence proceedings against the doctor.
Of course, he said, sufficient proof must be brought against the accused.
Father Hieronymus might note down the blasphemous tenets he heard from
the boy's lips before witnesses, and at the Advent season the smith and
his son would be examined.

The abbot, who liked to linger over his books, was glad to know that the
matter was in the hands of the civil authorities, and enjoined Hieronymus
to pay strict attention.

On the third Sunday in Advent, the magistrate again came to the
monastery.  His horses had worked their way with the sleigh through the
deep snow in the ravine with much difficulty, and, half-frozen, he went
directly to the refectory and there asked for his son.

The latter was lying with a bandaged eye in the cold dormitory, and when
his father sought him, he heard that Ulrich had wounded him.

It would not have needed Xaver's bitter complaints, to rouse his father
to furious rage against the boy who had committed this violence, and he
was by no means satisfied, when he learned that the culprit had been
excluded for three weeks from the others' sports, and placed on a very
frugal diet.  He went furiously to the abbot.

The day before (Saturday), Ulrich had gone at noon, without the young
count, who was in confinement for some offence, to the snow-covered play-
ground, where he was attacked by Xaver and a dozen of his comrades,
pushed into a snow-bank, and almost suffocated.  The conspirators had
stuffed icicles and snow under his clothes next his skin, taken off his
shoes and filled them with snow, and meantime Xaver jumped upon his back,
pressing his face into the snow till Ulrich lost his breath, and believed
his last hour had come.

Exerting the last remnant of his strength, he had succeeded in throwing
off and seizing his tormentor.  While the others fled, he wreaked his
rage on the magistrate's son to his heart's content, first with his
fists, and then with the heavy shoe that lay beside him.  Meantime,
snowballs had rained upon his body and head from all directions,
increasing his fury; and as soon as Xaver no longer struggled he started
up, exclaiming with glowing cheeks and upraised fists:

"Wait, wait, you wicked fellows!  The doctor in Richtberg knows a word,
by which he shall turn you all into toads and rats, you miserable
rascals!"

Xaver had remembered this speech, which he repeated to his father,
cleverly enlarged with many a false word.  The abbot listened to the
magistrate's complaint very quietly.

The angry father was no sufficient witness for him, yet the matter seemed
important enough to send for and question Ulrich, though the meal-time
had already begun.  The Jew had really spoken to his daughter about the
magic word, and the pupil of the monastery had threatened his companions
with it.  So the investigation might begin.

Ulrich was led back to the prison-chamber, where some thin soup and bread
awaited him, but he touched neither.  Food and drink disgusted him, and
he could neither work nor sit still.

The little bell, which, summoned all the occupants of the monastery, was
heard at an unusual hour, and about vespers the sound of sleigh-bells
attracted him to the window.  The abbot and Father Hieronymus were
talking in undertones to the magistrate, who was just preparing to enter
his sleigh.

They were speaking of him and the doctor, and the pupils had just been
summoned to bear witness against him.  No one had told him so, but he
knew it, and was seized with such anxiety about the doctor, that drops
of perspiration stood on his brow.

He was clearly aware that he had mingled his teacher's words with the
poacher's blasphemous sayings, and also that he had put the latter into
the mouth of Ruth's father.

He was a traitor, a liar, a miserable scoundrel!

He wished to go to the abbot and confess all, yet dared not, and so the
hours stole away until the time for the evening mass.

While in church he strove to pray, not only for himself but for the
doctor, but in vain, he could think of nothing but the trial, and while
kneeling with his hands over his eyes, saw the Jew in fetters before him,
and he himself at the trial in the town-hall.

At last the mass ended.

Ulrich rose.  Just before him hung the large crucifix, and the Saviour on
the cross, who with his head bowed on one side, usually gazed so gently
and mournfully upon the ground, to-day seemed to look at him with mingled
reproach and accusation.

In the dormitory, his companions avoided him as if he had the plague, but
he scarcely noticed it.

The moonlight and the reflection from the snow shone brightly through the
little window, but Ulrich longed for darkness, and buried his face in the
pillows.  The clock in the steeple struck ten.

He raised himself and listened to the deep breathing of the sleepers on
his right and left, and the gnawing of a mouse under the bed.

His heart throbbed faster and more anxiously, but suddenly seemed to
stand still, for a low voice had called his name.

"Ulrich!" it whispered again, and the young count, who lay beside him,
rose in bed and bent towards him.  Ulrich had told him about the word,
and often indulged in wishes with him, as he had formerly done with Ruth.
Philipp now whispered:

"They are going to attack the doctor.  The abbot and magistrate
questioned us, as if it were a matter of life and death.  I kept what
I know about the word to myself, for I'm sorry for the Jew, but Xaver,
spiteful fellow, made it appear as if you really possessed the spell,
and just now he came to me and said his father would seize the Jew early
to-morrow morning, and then he would be tortured.  Whether they will hang
or burn him is the question.  His life is forfeited, his father said--and
the black-visaged rascal rejoiced over it."

"Sileutium, turbatores!"  cried the sleepy voice of the monk in charge,
and the boys hastily drew back into the feathers and were silent.

The young count soon fell asleep again, but Ulrich buried his head still
deeper among the pillows; it seemed as if he saw the mild, thoughtful
face of the man, from whom he had received so much affection, gazing
reproachfully at him; then the dumb wife appeared before his mind,
and he fancied her soft hand was lovingly stroking his cheeks as usual.
Ruth also appeared, not in the yellow silk dress, but clad in rags of a
beggar, and she wept, hiding her face in her mother's lap.

He groaned aloud.  The clock struck eleven.  He rose and listened.
Nothing stirred, and slipping on his clothes, he took his shoes in his
hand and tried to open the window at the head of his bed.  It had stood
open during the day, but the frost fastened it firmly to the frame.
Ulrich braced his foot against the wall and pulled with all his strength,
but it resisted one jerk after another; at last it suddenly yielded and
flew open, making a slight creaking and rattling, but the monk on guard
did not wake, only murmured softly in his sleep.

The boy stood motionless for a time, holding his breath, then swung
himself upon the parapet and looked out.  The dormitory was in the second
story of the monastery, above the rampart, but a huge bank of snow rose
beside the wall, and this strengthened his courage.

With hurrying fingers he made the sign of the cross, a low: "Mary, pray
for me," rose from his lips, then he shut his eyes and risked the leap.

There was a buzzing, roaring sound in his ears, his mother's image
blended in strange distortion with the Jew's, then an icy sea swallowed
him, and it seemed as if body and soul were frozen.  But this sensation
overpowered him only a few minutes, then working his way out of the mass
of snow, he drew on his shoes, and dashed as if pursued by a pack of
wolves, down the mountain, through the ravine, across the heights, and
finally along the river to the city and the Richtberg.




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

He was steadfast in everything, even anger






A WORD, ONLY A WORD

By Georg Ebers

Volume 2.


CHAPTER VIII.

The magistrate's horses did not reach the city gate, from the monastery,
more quickly than Ulrich.

As soon as the smith was roused from sleep by the boy's knock and
recognized his voice, he knew what was coming, and silently listened to
the lad's confessions, while he himself hurriedly yet carefully took out
his hidden hoard, filled a bag with the most necessary articles, thrust
his lightest hammer into his belt, and poured water on the glimmering
coals.  Then, locking the door, he sent Ulrich to Hangemarx, with whom he
had already settled many things; for Caspar, the juggler, who learned
more through his daughters than any other man, had come to him the day
before, to tell him that something was being plotted against the Jew.

Adam found the latter still awake and at work.  He was prepared for the
danger that threatened him, and ready to fly.  No word of complaint, not
even a hasty gesture betrayed the mental anguish of the persecuted man,
and the smith's heart melted, as he heard the doctor rouse his wife and
child from their sleep.

The terrified moans of the startled wife, and Ruth's loud weeping and
curious questions, were soon drowned by the lamentations of old Rahel,
who wrapped in even more kerchiefs than usual, rushed into the sitting-
room, and while lamenting and scolding in a foreign tongue, gathered
together everything that lay at hand.  She had dragged a large chest
after her, and now threw in candlesticks, jugs, and even the chessmen and
Ruth's old doll with a broken head.

When the third hour after midnight came, the doctor was ready for
departure.

Marx's charcoal sledge, with its little horse, stopped before the door.

This was a strange animal, no larger than a calf, as thin as a goat, and
in some places woolly, in others as bare as a scraped poodle.

The smith helped the dumb woman into the sleigh, the doctor put Ruth in
her lap, Ulrich consoled the child, who asked him all sorts of questions,
but the old woman would not part from the chest, and could scarcely be
induced to enter the vehicle.

"You know, across the mountains into the Rhine valley--no matter where,"
Costa whispered to the poacher.

Hangemarx urged on his little horse, and answered, not turning to the
Israelite, who had addressed him, but to Adam, who he thought would
understand him better than the bookworm: "It won't do to go up the
ravine, without making any circuit.  The count's hounds will track us,
if they follow.  We'll go first up the high road by the Lautenhof.
To-morrow will be a fair-day.  People will come early from the villages
and tread down the snow, so the dogs will lose the scent.  If it would
only snow."

Before the smithy, the doctor held out his hand to Adam, saying: "We part
here, friend."

"We'll go with you, if agreeable to you."

"Consider," the other began warningly, but Adam interrupted him, saying:

"I have considered everything; lost is lost.  Ulrich, take the doctor's
sack from his shoulder."

For a long time nothing more was said.

The night was clear and cold; the men's footsteps fell noiselessly on the
soft snow, nothing was heard except the creaking of the sledge, and ever
and anon Elizabeth's low moaning, or a louder word in the old woman's
soliloquy.  Ruth had fallen asleep on her mother's lap, and was breathing
heavily.

At Lautenhof a narrow path led through the mountains deep into the
forest.

As it grew steeper, the snow became knee-deep, and the men helped the
little horse, which often coughed, tossing its thick head up and down, as
if working a churn.  Once, when the poor creature met with a very heavy
fall, Marx pointed to the green woollen scarf on the animal's neck, and
whispered to the smith "Twenty years old, and has the glanders besides."

The little beast nodded slowly and mournfully, as if to say: "Life is
hard; this will probably be the last time I draw a sleigh."

The broad, heavy-laden pine-boughs drooped wearily by the roadside, the
gleaming surface of the snow stretched in a monotonous sheet of white
between the trunks of the trees, the tops of the dark rocks beside the
way bore smooth white caps of loose snow, the forest stream was frozen
along the edges, only in the centre did the water trickle through snow-
crystals and sharp icicles to the valley.

So long as the moon shone, flickering rays danced and sparkled on the ice
and snow, but afterwards only the tedious glimmer of the universal snow-
pall lighted the traveller's way.

"If it would only snow!"  repeated the charcoal-burner.

The higher they went, the deeper grew the snow, the more wearisome the