CHAPTER I.

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COLLECTION

OF

GERMAN AUTHORS.

VOL. 29.

* * * * *

THE VULTURE MAIDEN BY W. von HILLERN.

IN ONE VOLUME.

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

By the same Author,

THE HOUR WILL COME . . . . . 2 vols.

THE

VULTURE MAIDEN

[DIE GEIER-WALLY.]

BY

WILHELMINE von HILLERN.

FROM THE GERMAN

BY

C. BELL AND E. F. POYNTER.

_Authorized Edition_,

LEIPZIG 1876

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.

CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.

PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES; THE GALIGNANI

LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI.

_The Author reserves the Right of dramatizing this Tale_.

TO BERTHOLD AUERBACH, Esq.

Permit me to offer you the fruit that I have gathered in a field

peculiarly your own. Under your powerful hand the difficult ground of

German peasant-life has yielded up its wealth of poetry; and if others,

with myself, now reap in the field tilled by you, it is our first duty

to think of you with gratitude, and to render to you the honour that is

rightly yours.

_Freiburg in Brisgau_, April 1875.

The Author.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I. Joseph, the Bear-hunter

-- II. Unbending

-- III. Outcast

-- IV. Munzoll's Child

-- V. Old Luckard

-- VI. A Day at Home

-- VII. "Hard Wood"

-- VIII. The Klotz Family of Rofen

-- IX. In the Wilderness

-- X. The Mistress of the Sonnenplatte

-- XI. At Last

-- XII. In the Night

-- XIII. Back to her Father

-- XIV. The Message of Grace

THE VULTURE-MAIDEN.

A TALE OF THE TYROLESE ALPS.

Far down in the depths of the Oetz valley, a traveller was passing. On

the eagle heights of the giddy precipice above him, stood a maiden's

form, no bigger than an Alpine rose when seen from below, yet sharply

defined against the clear blue sky, the gleaming ice-peaks of the

Ferner. There she stood firm and tranquil, though the mountain gusts

tore and snatched at her, and looked without dizziness down into the

depths where the Ache rushed roaring through the ravine, and a sunbeam

slanting across its fine spray-mist painted glimmering rainbows on the

rocky wall. To her, also, the traveller and his guide appeared minutely

small as they crossed the narrow bridge, which thrown high over the

Ache, looked from above like a mere straw. She could not hear what the

two were saying, for out of those depths no sound could reach her but

the thundering roar of the waters. She could not see that the guide, a

trimly-attired chamois-hunter, raised his arm threateningly, and

pointing her out to the stranger said: "That is certainly the

Vulture-maiden standing up yonder; no other maid would trust herself on

that narrow point, so near the edge of the precipice. See, one would

think that the wind must blow her over, but she always does just the

contrary to what other reasonable Christian folk do."

Now they entered a pine-forest, dark, damp, and cold. Once more the

guide paused, and sent a falcon-glance upwards to where the girl stood,

and the little village spread itself out smilingly on the narrow

mountain plateau in the full glow of the morning sun, which as yet

could hardly steal a sidelong ray into the close, grave-like twilight

of the gorge. "Thou needn't look so defiant, there's a way up as well

as down," he muttered, and disappeared with the stranger. As though in

scorn of the threat, the girl sent up a halloo, so shrilly repeated

from every side, that a flying echo reached even the silent depth of

the fir-wood with a ghostly ring, like the challenging cry of the

chamois-hunter's enemy, the fairy of the Oetz valley.

"Ay, thou may'st scream; I'll soon give it back to thee," he threatened

again; and throwing himself stiffly back, and supporting his neck with

both hands, he pealed forth, clear and shrill as a post-horn, a cry of

mocking and defiance up the mountain-side.

"She hears that, maybe?"

"Why do you call the girl up there the Vulture-maiden?" asked the

stranger down in the moist, dim, rustling forest.

"Because, Sir, when she was only a child she look a vulture's nest, and

fought the old bird," said the Tyrolese. "She is the strongest and

handsomest girl in all the Tyrol, and terribly rich, and the lads let

her drive them off, so that it's a shame to see. There's not one of

them sharp enough to master her. She is as shy as a wild cat, and so

strong that the boys declare no one can conquer her: if one of them

comes too near, she knocks him down. Well, if ever I went up there

after her, I'd conquer her, or I'd tear the chamois-tuft and feather

from my hat with my own hands."

"Why have you not already tried your luck with her, if she is so rich

and so handsome?" asked the traveller.

"Well, you see, I don't care for girls like that--girls that are half

boys. It's true, she can't help herself. The old man--Stromminger is

his name--is a regular wicked old fellow. In his time he was the best

wrestler and fighter in the mountains, and it sticks to him still. He

has often beaten the girl cruelly and brought her up like a boy.

She has no mother, and never had one, for she was such a big strong

child that her mother could scarcely bring her into the world,

and died of it. That's how it is the girl has grown up so wild and

masterful."--This was what the Tyrolese down in the ravine related to

the stranger, and he had not deceived himself. The maiden who stood out

yonder above the precipice was Wallburga Stromminger, daughter of the

powerful "chief-peasant," also called the Vulture-maiden; and he had

spoken truly, she deserved this name. Her courage and strength were

boundless as though eagle's wings had borne her, her spirit rugged and

inaccessible as the jagged peaks where the eagles build their nests,

and where the clouds of heaven are rent asunder.

Wherever anything dangerous was to be done, there from her childhood

upwards, was Wally to be found, putting the lads to shame. As a child

even she was wild and impetuous as her father's young bull, which she

had known how to subdue. When she was scarcely fourteen years old, a

peasant had descried on a rugged precipice a golden vulture's nest with

one young one, but no one in the village dared venture to seize it.

Then the head-peasant, scoffing at the valiant youth of the place,

declared he would make his Wallburga do it. And sure enough Wally was

ready for the deed, to the horror of the women and the vexation of the

lads. "It is a tempting of Providence," said the men. But Stromminger

must have his jest; all the world must learn by experience that the

race of Stromminger down to the children's children might seek its

match in vain.

"You shall see that a Stromminger girl is worth ten of you lads," he

said laughing to the peasants, who streamed together to witness the

incredible feat. Many grieved for the beautiful and stately young life

that might perhaps fall a sacrifice to the father's boasting; still,

everyone wished to see. As the precipice to which the nest clung was

almost perpendicular, and no human foot could tread it, a rope was

fastened round Wally's waist. Four men, foremost amongst whom was her

father, held it, but it was horrible to the lookers-on to see the

courageous child, armed only with a knife, walk boldly to the edge of

the plateau, and with a vigorous spring let herself down into the

abyss. If the knot of the rope should give way, if the vulture should

tear her in pieces, if in her descent she should dash out her brains

against some unnoticed crag? It was a God-forsaken act of Stromminger's

so to risk the life of his own child. Meanwhile Wally sailed fearlessly

through the air, till midway down the precipice she exultingly greeted

the young vulture, who ruffled his downy feathers, and piping, gnawed

with his shapeless beak at his strange visitor. Hardly pausing to

consider, she seized the bird which now raised a lamentable cry with

her left hand and tucked it under her arm. There was a rushing sound in

the air, and in the same instant a dark shadow came over her, a roaring

filled her ears, and a storm of blows fell like hail upon her head. Her

one thought was "The eyes--save the eyes," and pressing her face

closely against the rock, she hit blindly with the knife in her right

hand at the raging bird that threw itself upon her with its sharp beak,

its claws and wings. Meanwhile the men above hastily drew in the rope.

Still for a time during the ascent, the battle in the air continued;

then suddenly the vulture gave way, and plunged into the abyss--Wally's

knife must have wounded it. Wally however came up bleeding, her face

torn by the rocks, and holding in her arms the young bird, that at no

price would she have relinquished.

"But, Wally," cried the assembled people, "why didn't thou let the

young one go, then the vulture would have loosed its hold." "Oh," she

said simply, "the poor thing can't fly yet, and if I had let him go,

he'd have fallen down the precipice and been killed."

This was the first and only time in her whole life that her father gave

her a kiss; not because he was touched by Wally's noble compassion for

the helpless creature, but because she had performed an heroic action

that would reflect honour on the illustrious race of Stromminger.

Such was the maiden who stood out now on the projecting rock, where the

foot could hardly find room to rest, and dreamily looked down into the

ravine over which she hung; for often, with all her impetuosity, a

strange stillness would come over her, and she would gaze sadly before

her, as though she saw something for which she longed, and which she

yet might not attain. It was an image that always remained the same,

whether she saw it in the grey morning twilight, or in the golden glow

of noon, in the evening red, or in the pale moonlight, and for a year

it had followed her wherever she went or stood, below in the valley, or

above on the mountain. And when, as now, she was out and alone, and her

large chamois-eyes, at once wild and shy, wandered across to the

white-gleaming glaciers, or down into the shadow-filled gorge where the

Ache thundered on its way, still she sought him whom the image

resembled; and when now and then a traveller, minutely small in the

distance, glided past below, she thought, "That may be he," and a

strange joy came to her in the fancy that she had seen him, even though

she could distinguish nothing but a human form, no bigger than a moving

image in a peep-show. And now as those two wayfarers passed along, of

whom the one enquired about her, and the other threatened her, she

thought again, "It may be he." Her bosom seemed too tight for her

beating heart, her lips parted, and like a lark set free, her joy

soared up in a pealing song. And as the hunter in the wood below heard

its dying echo, so an echo of his reply reached her, and she listened

with an intoxicated ear--it might be his voice! and a blushing

reflection of her warm rush of feeling spread itself over the wild,

defiant face. She could not hear that the song was a song of scorn and

defiance. Had she known it, she would have clenched her sinewy fist,

she would have tried the strength of her arm, and over her face dark

shadows would have passed, till it grew pale as the glaciers after

sunset. But now she sat down on the stone that supported her, and

swinging her feet as they hung over the abyss, she rested her graceful

head on her hands, and gave herself up to dreaming over again all the

strange things that had happened that first time that she ever saw him.

CHAPTER I.

Joseph, the Bear-hunter.

It was at Whitsuntide, just a year before, that her father had taken

her to Soelden for the confirmation; thither the bishop came every other

year, because there is a high-road that leads to Soelden. She felt a

little ashamed, for she was already sixteen years old, and so tall. Her

father would not let her be confirmed before; he thought that with it

would come at once love-makings and suitors--and time enough for that!

Now she was afraid that the others would laugh at her. But no one took

any notice: the whole village when they arrived was in excitement, for

it was said that Joseph Hagenbach of Soelden had slain the bear that had

shown itself up in Vintschgau, and for which the young men in all the

country round had watched in vain. Then Joseph had set out across the

mountains, and by Friday last he had already got him. The messenger

from Schnalser had brought the news early, and Joseph himself was soon

to follow. The peasants of Soelden, who were waiting in front of the

Church, were full of pride that it should be a Soeldener that had

performed the dangerous deed, and talked of nothing but Joseph, who was

indisputably the finest and strongest lad in all the mountains, and a

shot without a rival. The girls listened admiringly to the tales of

Joseph's heroic deeds, how no mountain was too steep for him, no road

too long, no gulf too wide, and no danger too great; and when a pale,

sickly-looking woman came towards them across the village-green, they

all rushed up to her and wished her joy of the son who had won such

glory.

"He's a good one, thy Joseph," said the men cordially; "he's one from

whom all may take example." "If only thy husband had lived to see this

day, how rejoiced he would have been," said the women.

"No, no one would ever believe," cried one quaintly, "that such a fine

fellow was thy son--not looking at thee."

The woman smiled, well-pleased. "Yes, he's a fine-grown lad, and a good

son, there can't be a better. And yet, if you'll believe it, I never

have an hour's peace for him; there's not a day that I don't expect to

see him brought home with his limbs all broken. It's a cross to bear!"

The religious procession now appeared upon the place, and put an

end to the talk. The people thronged into the little church with the

white-robed, gaily-wreathed children, and the sacred office began.

But the whole time Wally could think of nothing but Joseph, the

bear-slayer, and of all the wonderful things he must have done, and of

how splendid it was to be so strong and so courageous, and to be held

in such great respect by every one, so that no one could get the better

of him. If only he would come now, whilst she was in Soelden, so that

she also might see him; she was really quite burning to see him.

At length the confirmation was over, and the children received the

final blessing. Suddenly, on the green outside in front of the church,

there was a sound of wild shouting and hurrahs. "He has him, he

has the bear!" Scarcely had the bishop spoken the last words of the

blessing when every one rushed out, and joyfully surrounded a young

chamois-hunter, who, accompanied by a troop of fine and handsome lads

from the Schnalser valley and from Vintschgau, was striding across the

green. But handsome as his comrades might be, there was not one of them

that came near him. He towered above them all, and was so beautiful--as

beautiful as a picture. It seemed almost as though he shone with light

from afar; he looked like the St. George in the church. Across his

shoulders, he carried the bear's fell, whose grim paws dangled over his

broad chest. He walked as grandly as the emperor, and never took but

one step when the others took two, and yet he was always ahead of them;

and they made as much ado about him as though he had been the emperor

indeed, dressed in a chamois-hunter's clothes. One carried his gun,

another his jacket; all was wild excitement, shouting and huzzaing--he

alone remained composed and tranquil.

He went modestly up to the priest, who came towards him from the

church, and took off his garlanded hat. The bishop, who was a stranger,

made the sign of the cross over him and said, "The Lord was mighty in

thee, my son! With his help thou hast performed what none other could

accomplish. Men must thank thee--but thou, thank thou the Lord!"

All the women wept with emotion, and even Wally had wet eyes. It was as

though the spirit of devotion that had failed her in church, first came

to her now, as she saw the stately hunter bow his proud head beneath

the priest's benedictory hand. Then the bishop withdrew, and now

Joseph's first enquiry was, "Where is my mother? Is she not here?"

"Yes, yes," she cried, "here am I," and fell into her son's arms.

Joseph clasped her tightly. "See, little mother," he said, "I should

have been sorry for thy sake not to come back again. Thou dear little

mother, thou'd never have known how to get on without me, and I too

should have been loth to die without giving thee one more kiss."

Ah, it was beautiful, the way he said it! Wally had quite a strange

feeling--a feeling as though she could envy the mother who rested so

contentedly in the loving embrace of the son, and clung so tenderly to

the powerful man. All eyes rested with delight on the pair, but an

unutterable sensation filled Wally's heart.

"But tell us now, tell us how it all happened."

"Yes, yes, I'll tell you," he said laughing, and flung the bearskin on

to the ground, so that all might see it. They made a circle round him,

and the village landlord had a cask of his best ale brought out and

tapped on the green; for one must drink after church, and above all on

such an extra occasion as this, and the little inn-parlour could never

have held such an unusual concourse of people. The men and women

naturally pressed close round the speaker, and the newly-confirmed

children climbed on to benches, and up into trees, that they might see

over their heads. Wally was foremost of all in a fir-tree, where she

could look straight down upon Joseph; but the others wanted her place;

there was some noise and struggling because she would not give way, and

"Saint George" looked up at them. His sparkling eyes fell upon Wally's

face, and remained smilingly fixed on it for a moment. All Wally's

blood rushed to her head, and she could hear her heart beating in her

very ears with her intense fright. In all her life before she had never

been so frightened, and she had not an idea why! She heard only the

half of what Joseph was relating, there was such a singing in her ears;

all the while she was thinking, "Suppose he were to look up again?" And

she could not have told whether she wished it or dreaded it most. And

yet, when in the course of his story it did once happen again, she

turned away quickly and ashamed, as though she had been found out in

something wrong. Was it wrong to have looked at him so? It might be,

and yet she could not leave off, though she trembled so incessantly

that she was afraid he might notice it. But he noticed nothing; what

did he care for the child up there in the tree? He had looked up once

or twice as he might have looked at a squirrel--nothing further. She

said so to herself, and a strange sorrow stole over her. Never before

had she felt as she did to-day; she was only thankful that she had

drunk no wine on the road; she might have thought that it had got into

her head.

In her confusion she began playing with her rosary. It was a beautiful

new one of red coral, with a chased cross of pure silver, that her

father had given her for her confirmation. All of a sudden as she

turned and twisted it, the string broke and, like drops of blood, the

red beads rolled down from the tree. "That is a bad sign," an inner

voice whispered to her, "old Luchard doesn't like it--that anything

should break when one is thinking of something!" Of something! Of what

then had she been thinking? She turned it over in her mind, but she

could not discover. Precisely she had been thinking of nothing in

particular. Why then should she be so troubled by the string breaking

just at that moment? She felt as though the sun had suddenly paled, and

a cold wind were blowing over her; but not a leaf was stirring, and the

icebound horizon glittered in the radiant sunlight. The shadow of a

cloud had passed--within her--or without her? How could she tell?

Joseph meanwhile had finished relating his adventure, and had shown

round the purse containing the forty florins paid by the Tyrolese

government as the reward for shooting a bear, and there was no end to

the handshakings and congratulations. Only Wally's father held sullenly

aloof. It angered him that any one should accomplish a great and heroic

deed; no one in the world had any right to be strong but himself and

his daughter. During thirty years he had been esteemed, without

dispute, the strongest man in the whole range of mountains, and he

could not bear now to find himself growing old, and obliged to make way

for a younger generation. When, however, someone said to Joseph that it

was no wonder he should be such a strong fellow--he had it from his

father who had been the best shot and the best wrestler in the whole

place--then the old man could contain himself no longer, but broke in

with a thundering "Oho! no need to bury a man before he's dead!"

Everyone fell back at the threatening voice. "It's Stromminger!" they

said, half-frightened.

"Ay, it is Stromminger, who's alive still, and who never knew till this

moment that Hagenbach had been the best wrestler in the place. With his

tongue, if you like, but with nothing else!"

Joseph turned round like a wounded wild cat, glaring at Stromminger

with flaming eyes. "Who says that my father was a boaster?"

"I say it, the head-peasant of the Sonnenplatte, and I know what I'm

saying, for I've laid him flat a dozen times, like a sack."

"It is false," cried Joseph, "and no man shall blacken my father's

name."

"Joseph, be quiet," the people whispered about him, "it's the

head-peasant--thou mustn't make a quarrel with him."

"Head-peasant here, head-peasant there! If God in Heaven were to come

down to blacken my father's name, I wouldn't put up with it. I know

very well, my father and Stromminger had many a wrestling-bout

together, because he was the only one who could stand up with

Stromminger. And he threw Stromminger just as often as Stromminger

threw him."

"It's not true!" shouted Stromminger, "thy father was a weak fool

compared to me. If any of you old fellows have a spark of honour,

you'll say so too--and thou, if thou doesn't believe it after that,

I'll knock it into thee!" At the word "fool" Joseph had sprung like a

madman, close up to Stromminger. "Take thy words back, or--"

"Heavens above us!" shrieked the women. "Let be, Joseph," said his

mother soothingly, "he's an old man, thou mustn't lay hands on him."

"Oho!" cried Stromminger, purple with rage, "you'd make me out an old

dotard, would you? Stromminger is none so old and weak yet but he can

fight it out with a half-fledged stripling. Only come on, I'll soon

show thee I've some marrow left in my bones. I'm not afraid of thee yet

awhile, not if thou'd shot ten bears."

And like an enraged bull the strong old man threw himself on the

young hunter, who in spite of himself gave way under the sudden and

heavy spring. But he only staggered for a moment; his slender form

was so firmly knit, was so supple in yielding, so elastic in rising

again--like the lofty pines of his native soil, that grow with roots of

iron in the naked rock, buffeted by all the winds of heaven and bearing

up against their mountain-load of snow. As easily might Stromminger

have uprooted one of these trees, as have flung Joseph to the ground.

And in fact, after a short struggle, Joseph's arms closely clasped

Stromminger, tightening round and almost choking him, till a deep groan

came with his shortening breath, and he could not stir a hand. And now

the young giant began to shake the old man, bending first on one side,

then on the other, striving steadily, slowly but surely to force first

one foot and then the other from under him, and so loosen his foothold

by degrees. The bystanders hardly dared to breathe as they watched the

strange scene--almost as though they dared not look on at the felling

of so old a tree. Now--now Stromminger has lost his footing--now he

must fall--but no; Joseph held him up, bore him in his strong arms to

the nearest bench and set him down on it. Then he quietly took out his

handkerchief and dried the beads of sweat from Stromminger's brow.

"See, Stromminger," he said, "I've got the better of thee, and I might

have thrown thee; but God forbid that I should bring an old man to

shame. And now we will be good friends again; we bear no malice,

Stromminger?"

He held out his hand, smiling goodhumouredly, but Stromminger struck it

back with an angry scowl. "The devil pay thee out--thou scoundrel," he

cried. "And you, all you Soeldeners who have amused yourselves with

seeing Stromminger made a laughing-stock for the children--you shall

learn by experience who Stromminger is. I'll have nothing more to do

with you, and grant no more time for payments--not if half Soelden were

to starve for it."

He went up to the tree, where Wally still sat as in a nightmare, and

pulled her by the gown. "Come down," he said, "thou'll get no dinner

there. Not a Soeldener shall ever see another kreuzer of mine." But

Wally, who had rather fallen than got down from the tree, stood as if

spell-bound with her eyes fixed almost beseechingly on Joseph. She

thought he must see how it pained her to go away; she felt as though he

must take her hand in his, and say, "Only stay with me: thou belong'st

to me, and I to thee, and to no other!" But he stood still in the midst

of a knot of men who were whispering together in dismay, for many in

the village owed money to Stromminger, whose wealth circulated in the

very veins of the whole neighbourhood.

"Well--wilt thou go on?" said Stromminger, giving the girl a push, and

she had to obey him whether for weal or woe; but her lips trembled, her

breast heaved painfully; she flung a glance of powerless anger at her

father; he drove her before him like a calf. So they went on for a few

steps; then they heard some one following them, and turning round,

there stood Joseph with a couple of peasants behind him.

"Stromminger," he said, "don't be so headstrong. You can never go, you

and the girl, all that long way to the Sonnenplatte, without eating

anything."

He stood close to Wally; she felt his breath as he spoke, his eyes

rested on her, his hand lay compassionately on her shoulder; she knew

not how it happened--he was so good, so dear--and she felt as she did

when, taking the vulture's nest, the rushing sound of its wings

suddenly filled her ears, and sight and hearing went from her. Even so,

something overwhelming to her young heart, lay in his presence, in his

touch. She had not trembled when the mighty bird hovered above her,

darkening the sun with his broad pinions, she had known how to defend

herself calmly and bravely; but now she trembled from head to foot, and

stood bewildered and confused.

"Get off!" cried Stromminger, and clenched his fist at Joseph, "I'll

hit thee in the face if thou doesn't let me be--I will, if it cost me

my life."

"Well--if you won't, you won't, and so let it be,--but you're a fool,

Stromminger," said Joseph calmly, and he turned round and went back

with the others.

Now no one tried to detain them; they walked on unmolested, farther--at

each step farther away from Joseph. Wally looked round, and still for a

time she could see his head towering above the others, she could still

hear the confused sound of voices and of laughter on the green before

the church. She could not yet believe that she was really gone, that

she should not see Joseph again--perhaps never again. Now they turned a

corner of the rock and all was hidden, the village green with all the

people and Joseph--and every thing, every thing was gone. Then suddenly

there came upon her, as it were, a revelation of a great joy of which

she had had one glimpse, and which was lost to her for ever now. She

looked around as though imploring help in her soul's need, in this new,

this unknown anguish. And there was none to answer her and to say, "Be

patient, presently all will be well!" Dead and motionless were the

rocks and cliffs all around, dead and motionless the Ferner looked down

upon her. What did they care, they who had seen worlds come and worlds

pass away, for this poor little trembling woman's heart? Her father

walked on at her side, silent as though he were a moving rock. And he

it was that was guilty of all. He was a wicked, hard, cruel man; there

was not a creature in the world that took any interest in her. And

while she thought all this, struggling with herself, she walked on

mechanically farther and farther in advance of her father, up hill and

down hill, as though she wished to walk off her heart's pain. The

scorching sun glared on the blank wall of rock, she strove for breath,

her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, all her veins throbbed;

suddenly her strength gave way, she threw herself on the ground and

broke into loud sobs.

"Oho! what's all this about?" exclaimed Stromminger in the greatest

astonishment, for never since her earliest infancy had he seen his

daughter weep. "Art out of thy wits?"

Wally made no reply; she gave herself up to the wild outbreak of her

soul's suffering.

"Speak, will thee? open thy mouth or--"

Then from her throbbing, raging heart, like a mountain torrent from the

cleft rock, she poured forth the whole truth, overwhelming the old man

with the rush and ferment of her passion. She told him everything, for

truthful she had always been and unaccustomed to lying. She told him

that Joseph had pleased her, that she felt such a love for him as no

one in the world had ever felt before, that she had been rejoicing so

in the thought of talking to him, and that if Joseph had only heard how

strong she was and how she had already done all sorts of strong things,

he would certainly have danced with her and he would certainly have

fallen in love with her too; and now her father had deprived her of it

all, because he must needs fall upon Joseph like a madman; and now she

was a laughing-stock and a disgrace, so that Joseph to the last day of

his life would never look at her again. But that was always the way

with her father, he was always hard and mad with everyone, so that

everywhere he was called the wicked Stromminger--and now she must atone

for it all.

Then suddenly Stromminger spoke. "I've had enough of this," he cried.

There was a whistling through the air, and such a blow from her

father's stick crashed down upon Wally that she thought her spine was

broken; she turned pale and bowed her head. It was as hail falling on

the scarce opened blossom of her soul. For a moment she was in such

pain that she could not stir; bitter tears forced themselves through

her closed eyes, like sap from a broken stem; otherwise she lay still

as death. Stromminger waited by her muttering curses, as a drover

stands by a heifer that, felled by a blow, can do no more.

Around them all was still and lonely, no voice of bird, no rustling of

trees broke the silence. On the narrow rocky path where father and

daughter stood, no tree ever bore a leaf, no bird ever built its nest.

A thousand years ago the elements must have warred here in fearful

conflict, and far as the eye could reach nothing could be seen but the

giant wrecks of the wild tumult. But now the fires were burnt out that

had rent the ground, and the waters subsided that had swept away the

strong ones of the earth in their raging flood. There they lay hurled

one upon another, the motionless giants; the mighty powers that had

moved them lay slumbering now, and peace as of the grave lay over all

as over monuments of the dead, and pure and still as heavenward

aspirations the white glaciers rose high above them. Only man,

ever-restless man, carried on even here his never ending strife, and

with his suffering destroyed the sublime peace of nature.

At last Wally opened her eyes and gathered her strength to go on; no

further lamentation passed her lips, she looked at her father

strangely, as though she had never seen him before; her tears were

dried up.

"Thou may guess now what'll come of it, if thou thinks any more of yon

scoundrel that made thy father a jest for children," said he, holding

her by the arm, "for thou may know this, that I'd sooner fling thee

down from the Sonnenplatte than let Joseph have thee."

"It is well," said Wally, with an expression that startled even

Stromminger; such unflinching defiance lay in the simple words, in the

tone in which they were spoken, in the glance of irreconcilable enmity

which she threw at her father.

"Thou's a wicked--wicked thing," muttered he between his teeth.

"I have not stolen anything," she answered in the same tone.

"Only wait awhile--I'll pay thee out," he snarled.

"Yes, yes," she answered, nodding her head, as if to say, "only try

it!" Then they said no more to each other the whole way back.

When they had reached home, and Wally had gone into her room to take

off her holiday finery, old Luckard who had lived with her mother and

her grandmother, and who had brought Wally up from her cradle, put her

head in at the door. "Wally, hast been weeping?" she whispered.

"Why?" asked the girl with unwonted sharpness.

"There were tears on the cards--I laid out the pack of cards for thy

confirmation; thou fell between two knaves and I was frightened at it;

it was all as near as if it had happened to-day and close by."

"Like enough," said the girl indifferently, and laid away her mother's

beautiful gown in the big wooden chest.

"Does anything ail thee, child?" asked the old woman. "Thou looks so

ill and thou'st come home so early. Didn't thou dance?"

"Dance!" The girl laughed, a hard shrill laugh, as though one should

strike a lute with a hammer till the strings ring back all jarred and

jangled out of tune. "What have I to do with dancing."

"Something's happened to thee, child--tell me--perhaps I can help

thee."

"None can help me," said Wally, and shut down the lid of the chest as

if she would bury in it all that was oppressing her. It was as though

she were closing down the coffin-lid over all her youthful hopes.

"Go now," she said imperiously, as she had never spoken before, "I

shall rest awhile."

"Jesus, Maria!" shrieked Luckard, "there lies thy rosary all broken.

Where are the beads?"

"Lost."

"Oh! Lord! Lord! what ill luck! only the cross is left and the empty

string. To break thy rosary on thy confirmation day! and tears on the

cards besides! Our Father in Heaven! what will come of it?"

Thus lamenting, half pushed out by Wally, the old woman left the room,

and Wally bolted the door after her. She threw herself on the bed and

lay motionless, staring at the picture of the Holy Mother and at the

crucifix which hung on the wall opposite. Should she pour out her

sorrows to these? No! The Mother of God could bear her no good-will,

otherwise she would not have let just her confirmation day above

all others be so spoilt for her. Besides, she could not know what

love-sorrows were, for she had known suffering only through her Son,

and that was something quite different from what Wally felt. And the

Lord Jesus Christ!--He certainly did not trouble himself about

love-stories; no one might dare to approach Him with such matters as

these. All that He desired was that one should be always striving after

the kingdom of Heaven. Ah! And all her young, wildly-beating heart was

longing and yearning with every throb for the beloved, the best-beloved

one down here on earth; the kingdom of Heaven was so far away and so

strange, how could she strive after it in this moment when, for the

first time, all powerful nature was imperiously claiming in her its

right? With bitter defiance she gazed at the images of the Mother and

Son, whose pity was for quite other griefs than hers, who demanded of

her only what was impossible. She vouchsafed to them no further word,

she was angry with them as a child is angry with its parents when they

unjustly deny it some pleasure. Long she lay thus, her eyes fixed

reproachfully on the holy images; but soon she saw before her only the

dear and beautiful face of Joseph, and involuntarily she grasped her

shoulder with her hand where his hand had lain, as though to keep firm

hold of his momentary touch. And then she saw his mother again of whom

she had been so jealous, and she lay once more in Joseph's arms, and he

caressed her so fondly; and then Wally pushed the mother away and lay

herself instead on Joseph's heart; and he held her clasped there, and

she looked down into the depths of his black flaming eyes, and she

tried to imagine what he would say, but she could think of nothing but,

"Thou dear little one," as he had said, "Thou dear little mother." And

what could be sweeter or dearer than that? Ah! what could the kingdom

of Heaven, in which those Two up yonder wanted to have her, what could

it be in comparison with the blessedness that she felt in only thinking

of Joseph--and how much greater must the reality be!

There was a tap at her window, and she started up as if from a dream.

It was the young vulture which she had taken two years before from the

nest, and which was as faithfully attached to her as a dog. She could

leave him quite free, he never hurt anyone, and flew after her with his

clipped wings as best he could. She opened the little window, he

slipped in and looked trustingly at her with his yellow eyes. She

scratched his neck gently and played with his strong wings, now

spreading them out, now folding them together again. A cool air blew in

through the open window. The sun had already sunk low behind the

mountains, the narrow casement framed the peaceful picture of the

mountain tops veiled in blue mist. In herself too all grew more

peaceful; the evening air revived her spirit. She took the bird on her

shoulder. "Come, Hans," she said, "we are doing nothing, as though

there were no work in the world." The faithful bird had brought her

wonderful comfort. She had taken it for her own from the steep cliff

where no one else would venture; she had fought its mother for life or

death, she had tamed it and it belonged wholly to her. "And he will

also one day be mine," said an inward voice, as she clasped the bird to

her bosom.