"How the wind blows!" exclaimed Gundel, quite of out breath. It had
required all her strength to close the door. "What a storm! There never
was such a gust before. Why, the wind's just as hot as if it were blown
out of an oven."
She got up quickly and, filling a cup with water, emptied it on the
fire that burned on the hearth.
"What are you doing?" cried Irma.
"We mustn't have a fire now," replied Gundel, and, after that, they sat
there in the dark room, almost stifled by the smoke, for the storm
raged so wildly that they dared not open a window.
"If father were only home," said Gundel; "I hope, for God's sake, he'll
get home safe!"
Her last words were drowned by a sudden peal of thunder that
reverberated from the mountains, with a crash as if the whole world
were being destroyed. And now the wind raged and stormed more violently
than before. The firmly built hut seemed to totter, the roof trembled,
and one of the great boulders with which it had been secured fell to
the ground.
"Give me your hand!" cried Gundel, in the dark. "If we must die--let's
pray." She prayed aloud, but the crashing thunder drowned her voice.
Suddenly the noise changed, and it sounded as if countless iron hammers
were descending on the roof; the rattling, pounding and rumbling
created a furious din.
"That's hail!" shrieked Gundel, putting her mouth to Irma's ear.
The thunder and hail continued, and, ever and anon, the lightning would
flash through the smoke and darkness, causing the two girls to appear,
in each other's eyes, as if transported to the infernal regions. The
hailstones seemed to impel each other forward. Now they would descend
with mighty force; then the fury of the storm would abate and they
would fall more gently and steadily than before, as if the raging
mountain demon had stopped to take breath, before again venting his ire
on the mortals who had ventured to build a cottage on his lofty domain.
The lowing of the cows and the ringing of their bells were heard above
the rattling hail.
"I opened the stable door, but the wind must have blown it shut,"
exclaimed Gundel; and, forgetting her own trouble, she hurried out. She
came back in a hurry, and, placing an inverted pail on her head, went
out again. Irma followed her example, and the two of them ducked their
heads while the great hailstones rattled against the pails. Gundel
tried to open the stable door, but the cows crowded about her so that
she was thrown to the ground. In the midst of the noise, Irma heard
Gundel's piercing cry. The bellowing, trembling leader cow was standing
near Irma.
"Come along!" said Irma, seizing the cow by one of its horns. It obeyed
her, and the other cows made way. Irma found Gundel, and, having helped
her up, the two opened the stable door, but were almost crushed to
death, for the cows all tried to get in at once. They each had but one
hand free, as the other was needed to hold the pail. They succeeded in
getting to the wall and, at last, when all the cows were in the stable,
the two girls waded through the hail with which the ground was thickly
covered, and regained the cottage. They groped about until they found
the hearth and sat down by it. And the two lonely, forlorn children sat
there in the dark, while the storm raged without.
"I feel sure," cried Gundel, "that father must have found shelter
somewhere. He knows every overhanging rock and--O God!" she suddenly
cried, "just think of the poor blind man, out in such weather! Has the
hail cut your hand and back, the way it did mine?" said she, crying,
and nestling close to Irma.
"No, I feel nothing," replied Irma, and it really seemed as if physical
pain could not affect her. She, too, had thought of the blind man, and
also of the king whom filial ingratitude had turned out into the stormy
night. But hail or wind were not half so violent as her regret that,
yielding to pity, she had allowed a man to pass his hand across her
face.
Is all lost again? Is all that has cost so great a struggle,
sacrificed? wofully asked an inner voice--and yet she felt conscious of
her purity.
"Thank God! it's only raining now," said Gundel at last. She struck a
light, and the two looked at each other, as if they had just emerged
from depths of darkness. The floor was wet with the water that had
dripped from their clothes.
"Are you at home?" exclaimed a voice from without. The door opened and
the little pitchman entered, carrying a young kid in his arms.
"Thank God you're safe and sound," he exclaimed, laying the kid down by
the empty fireplace. With his sleeve, which was far wetter that either,
he wiped the water from his eyes and forehead. Then he took a bottle of
gentian brandy from the upper shelf and, after taking a drink, and
forcing Gundel and Irma to do likewise, he went on to say: "I've gone
through a good deal in my time, but never anything like this. I know
every tree and every rock for miles, but I seemed to have lost my way.
While I stood there in the midst of the storm, I heard a chamois doe
bleating pitifully, and I went up to her and there she stood, with the
young kid that had just been born. It had hardly come into the world,
before the hail tried to beat it to death. When the mother saw me, she
ran away, but came back again and placed herself over the young kid, so
that the hail shouldn't strike it, but her instead. I went near her,
but the mother ran away again. I picked up the young one and, just as
we were going on to look for shelter, I heard human voices. Two people
were calling to a third one, who was roaring and screaming. When the
lightning flashed, I saw that he was lying on the ground, unable to
move.
"'Honored master, just lean on us; we'll soon find shelter,' I heard
them saying, and when the lightning flashed again, I saw that we were
near the Witches' Table. So I called out to them: 'The Witches' Table
is over yonder.' Then there was another flash, and I saw that the two
men who had been standing had also fallen down. They told me,
afterward, that they had been afraid of me, and I couldn't think hard
of them. In such a storm, and on such a night, one would almost believe
in anything. I went up to them, told them who I was, and offered to
lead them. It was hard work, though, to get along, for the blind man
went on as if crazed, and kept talking about a lost child. At last,
safe and sound, but dripping with water, we got under the Witches'
Table, and there we lay. And whenever it lightened we could see the
hailstones dancing on the rocks and beating against the trees. We
waited until it stopped hailing, and the blind man told me that the
next time I came down to the apothecary's, in the town, he would give
me a gold piece. The king's there and so is the queen. He promised to
see to it that I should get the medal for saving a life, and a pension,
in the bargain, for the rest of my days. And now, children, get to bed,
for you're soaking wet. What ails you, Irmgard? Why do you shiver so?"
The little pitchman scolded Gundel for having let cousin Irmgard sit
about in her wet clothes. Now and then the little kid would cry
piteously and shiver all over, so that the little pitchman brought down
his bed-cover from the hay-loft and wrapped the kid in it. Then, with
three fingers, he cleverly fed it with milk from a dish.
The little kid was soon asleep, and, in the room within, Irma was
sleeping too.
"Thank God, you've had a good sleep," said Gundel, who was standing at
Irma's bedside, late on the following morning. "How strange it seems!
The hail didn't hurt you a bit and just see how I look." She showed the
marks, but quickly added: "That's no matter; it'll soon be over. Just
look at the sky! Don't it look as if it never could do any harm. Over
by the stream, the lightning struck a tree and split it in two, and
places where it used to be dry are covered with water. If I didn't feel
it in every bone of my body, and couldn't see it, I'd hardly believe
there had ever been a storm. But we were lucky, after all. None of the
cattle were hurt, and the cowboy is here, too. He crept away, down the
valley, where there was no storm at all."
It was a clear, bracing morning. Here and there, there were still some
large hailstones lying in the crevices of the rocks. The cows were
grazing on the meadow, and the cowboy was singing merrily. He was proud
that the goats were the best judges of the weather; while grazing, they
had moved down toward the valley, and that was the surest sign that a
storm was brewing.
At noon, Franz came up from the farm. The torrents of water that had
rushed down into the valley, had led them to suppose that something had
happened, and Walpurga had sent Franz to find out all about it. The
hot, midday sun soon dried up everything, and the waters did not long
remain on the heights. Irma went out to her favorite resting-place and,
spreading her blue rug on the ground, lay down.
Suddenly, she heard the sounds of a bugle horn. What was it? Was it
royalty, or a dream?
The sounds were repeated. Irma's heart beat violently. Something drew
near. She could hear it panting, as it forced its way through the
crackling brush. She looked up and saw a stag rushing through the
clearing near by, and the huntsmen pursuing and gaining upon it. Irma
passed her hand over her eyes--she looked once more-- It was the king
and his suite.
Springing from his horse, the chief piqueur exclaimed: "The stag broke
through here. Your Majesty. Here is the trail." He dipped his finger in
the blood and showed it to the king. The king looked around--did he
feel the glance directed upon him from the thicket? The glance that had
once made him so happy, but that had, for him, been so long
extinguished? He missed his stirrup; the horse reared wildly. Irma bent
down, with her face against the mossy turf. She felt as if the whole
hunt, as if all the horses' hoofs, were passing over her. She bit the
grass on which she lay. She dug her hands into the earth. She feared to
shriek aloud.
When she got up, all was quiet. She stared about her. Had it been a
dream? In the distance, she heard the report of a gun and the sound of
the bugle. The stag had fallen.
If one could die in that way, thought Irma to herself, sinking back on
the moss, and weeping.
She arose. A storm-laden cloud had once more arisen within her soul,
but it was for the last time. About her, all was clear and sunny. Hail
and storm and lightning were forgotten. She went back to the hut, and
often turned to look at the sun sinking in the west. And now, for the
first time, she repaired to rest before nightfall. She was shivering
with a fever-chill, and soon her cheeks were hot and red. She called
the little pitchman to her bedside and asked him to give her a sheet of
paper. Her hand trembled, while she wrote in pencil:
"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."
She told the little pitchman to hurry to town, to give this paper to
the great doctor in person, and to conduct him to her at once. Then she
turned away and was calm again.
"I'll give you something good," said the little pitchman, while, with
broad-brimmed hat on his head, and mountain-staff in his hand, he stood
before her. "You'll see, It'll do you good. I'll lay the kid down here
at your feet; that'll do both o' you good. Shall I?"
Irma nodded assent.
The little pitchman did as he said he would. The kid looked up sleepily
at Irma, and she smiled on it in return. Both soon closed their eyes.
Wandering in the dark, the little pitchman descended into the valley.