As Adolf returned homeward, many and various were the contending
reflections which embittered his mind. At one time he thought of the
misery which he must endure in beholding the object of his dearest
affections, united to Mienckel, her profound aversion; now, vague dreams
of the wealth and happiness which the possession of the hidden treasure
would confer upon him, flitted across his mind; but a chill damp struck
through his soul as he remembered the intimated penalty; and wild
imaginations of spectral forms, demoniac faces, and the awful legendary
tales, so current among the peasantry, filled his breast with horror. He
reached his cottage, and threw himself upon his humble couch, agonised
by conflicting emotions. No sleep visited his pillow, and early the next
morning he arose and went forth, hoping to subdue the fever of his blood
by exercise in the cold air. He wandered about for some time, listless
in which direction he took his way, until he found himself near the farm
house of old Mullerhorn.
It was a jolly day at the house of that ancient. Turkeys, geese, pigs,
and the promiscuous tenantry of the barn yard, bled beneath the knives
of the rosy Dutch damsels. The smoke curled in copious volumes from the
ample chimneys, and the hissing of culinary utensils, employed at the
genial occupation of preparing divers dainties, together with the savory
odors from the purlieus of the kitchen, gave indisputable tokens that
something highly important was taking place in the house. Adolf viewed
this busy scene with melancholy feelings enough, for he well presaged
what it meaned. He paused, and leaned sadly on his rifle; but his heart
felt still heavier, when, from a window of the farm house a fair white
hand was extended, waving a handkerchief toward him. A tear stole down
his cheek, as he acknowledged the signal, and, raising his rifle, was
about to depart, when a slight tap on the shoulder arrested him, and a
plump little maiden, whose rosy cheeks, and smiling face, were the very
emblems of good humor, in fact, a perfect Dutch Hebe, accosted him.
“Why, how now, master Adolf? Have you not a word for an old
acquaintance?”
“Ah, Agatha, is it thou? How dost thou, my good lass?”
“Better, Adolf, than either yourself or Barbara, if there is any
judgment in your looks. Why, you look as if you had seen a spectre, and
if you will keep company with that black-looking wretch, that Franz
Rudenfranck, I wouldn’t insure that you will not see one, some of these
dark nights. Bless me, how you change color. Are you sick?”
“No, no, Agatha. Not so sick in body as in heart. How fares Barbara?”
“Why, indeed, Dolf, for I will call you Dolf again, and it’s a shame for
father Philip to make us all call you master Adolf; master indeed! she
has done nothing but cry all night. But she is to be married to old
Chriss this morning—the odious fool! I’m sure she hates him—and I’ve a
thousand things to do; so good bye to you Dolf.”
The lively little girl ran off, and Adolf again was about to pursue his
path, when old Mullerhorn, accompanied by the intended bridegroom, and
some of his neighbors, arrived at the farm.
“What, Adolf,” said the old man, while a cynical smile played over his
thin features, “Adolf here. Thou hast been a stranger of late, lad. But,
come, wilt thou not in with us and witness this merry marriage? In
faith, it will gladden my little Barbara to see thee there. Come, thou
must aid in this gay ceremony.”
Adolf was, for a moment, undecided what answer to make old Mullerhorn;
but curbing his indignation, and repressing an angry reply—he thought
it most prudent to accept the invitation.
“I thank you, neighbor Philip,” said he, “and willingly will go with
you.”
“Why, that is well spoken, boy,” replied the old man, unusually elated
by the occasion. “I always liked thee, Adolf; but no ducats, lad, no
ducats.”
“They are not so very difficult to procure,” whispered a voice in
Adolf’s ear; he turned, and beheld Rudenfranck.
“Well, in, Adolf; and eh? Franz Rudenfranck too? But, in—in with ye
both,” said old Mullerhorn, and the party entered the farm-house.
The room into which they were ushered, was an ample, commodious
apartment, constructed in the true Dutch fashion, with a polished oak
floor, and noble rafters of the same wood. It was hung around with some
few gay colored prints, illustrating Scripture subjects, and some bright
tin sconces; and the furniture was substantial, although homely. A large
mahogany press, whose bright surface and polished brass knobs, might
have compared in brilliancy with the mirror, stood in one corner; an old
fashioned Indian chest, ponderous and highly japanned, ornamented the
opposite niche. Some heavy chairs with long, high backs, and formal arms
and legs; the never failing spinning wheel and Dutch clock; and a pair
of tall, ill-shaped, brass fire-dogs, completed the garniture of the
apartment. The walls were decorated with festoons of evergreen,
tastefully arranged by the fair hands of Barbara herself. Two
ill-looking, dingy paintings, also occupied a couple of recesses; and a
neatly polished cherry table, near a window, displayed an inviting array
of apple brandy, cherry wine, cider, and such refreshments as were
indigenous to the country. The good dame, after welcoming kindly her
guests, bustled off to resume the superintendence of the kitchen; and
the unfortunate Barbara herself, arrayed in bridal trim, and looking
through her tears, as lovely as the violet, freshly bathed in dew,
remained, seated in one of the large chairs, and vainly endeavoring to
conceal her emotion. As Adolf entered, her heart palpitated violently,
and she could with difficulty so far command herself, as to bid him
welcome. Nor did the sight of Barbara in such distress, fail equally to
afflict her lover; a grief which Rudenfranck artfully increased, by
hinting strongly to Adolf, the possibility of changing the entire face
of the scene.
The magistrate having arrived, and matters being so arranged as to bring
the affiance to a conclusion, Rudenfranck took the opportunity to lead
Adolf apart from the rest.
“Thou thrice sodden ass,” said he, “can’st thou call thyself a lover,
and yet allow so much innocence and beauty to be sacrificed to age and
avarice? Say thou the word; promise to obey me, and thou shalt yet
possess her. See, they are about to sign. Hesitate a moment longer—and
look, Barbara implores thee—she is lost. Farewell.”
“Stay,” rejoined Adolf, hurriedly, “this must not—shall not be.
Rudenfranck, I promise.”
“Then, demand of old Mullerhorn that the ceremony be delayed, and leave
the rest to me.”
“Father Philip,” said Adolf, addressing Mullerhorn, who was just about
to affix his name to the deed, “you are aware how long and how truly I
have loved Barbara. To see her thus sacrificed, is more than I can bear,
and I entreat you to consider farther upon this matter, and to defer
this marriage.”
The guests looked utterly confounded. Chriss Mienckel opened wide his
large, gray eyes, and stared upon the bold hunter in profound amazement.
Barbara turned red and pale by turns; and old Mullerhorn crimsoned with
rage.
“Have I not told ye, Adolf Westerbok, that I would never bestow Barbara
upon a beggarly hunter? What devil then, prompts thee to interrupt a
match which thou hast no power to prevent?”
“Dearest father,” said Barbara, clasping the hard hand of the old man,
“hearken to Adolf.”
“Away, idle girl! Adolf, tempt me not to do thee an injury.”
“Nay,” said the hunter, “is it even so? Well, then; gold for gold—ducat
for ducat—nay, double each ducat that old Mienckel can bestow, will I
lay before you, Philip Mullerhorn.”
“Thy morning draught has been somewhat of the strongest, Adolf. Where
should’st thou have met with these sums?” Chriss Mienckel chuckled
portentously, and thrusting each hand into his capacious pockets, a
melodious harmony of jingling coins soon resounded from their precincts.
“Look in thy pouch,” whispered Rudenfranck. Adolf did so, and drew forth
two purses, richly furnished with gold. Astonishment fairly stupified
the guests; and the covetous eyes of old Mullerhorn glistened at the
sight of money. But the recollection of Mienckel’s broad lands and fair
cattle crossed his mind.
“Gold for gold,” said he, musingly. “Well, well, it may be so; and
Adolf, when thou canst certify me concerning these riches, thou shalt,
perhaps, find me not altogether opposed to thee. This ceremony, for the
present, with the consent of Mienckel, shall be postponed.”
Mienckel nodded his assent; for he was a man of but few words. But
Adolf, holding the hand of Barbara, demanded an immediate trial.
“Be it so, then,” replied Mullerhorn. “My neighbor’s property is well
known. Let it be thy task to prove thy fortune equal to his.”
“Yes,” said Mienckel, “house and farm—cattle and gear—broad
lands—rich farming ground—bright ducats——”
“To balance which, I throw, as earnest, these purses,” said Adolf.
“Rudenfranck, can’st thou not aid me now?” whispered he, turning to the
hunter.
“Not now,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “you have the last of my gold.
To-night——”
“To-night!” said Adolf, impatiently, “an age! Father Philip, I pledge
myself that on the morrow I will prove myself worthy your regard in
purse as well as in love.”
“Agreed,” said Mullerhorn, “until to-morrow let the espousal be
deferred. If thou can’st then satisfy my doubts, Barbara shall be thine.
If not, this marriage shall no longer be prevented.”
“Thanks, father, and farewell. Come thou with me, Rudenfranck. Ere
to-morrow night, sweet Barbara, all shall be accomplished.”
Rudenfranck and Adolf left the house, and walked through the forest in
the direction of the hut of Rudenfranck. Few words were exchanged
between them, until, being arrived at the hut, they closed the door
carefully, and Adolf broke silence.
“Now, Rudenfranck,” said he, “I must know the means by which this
treasure may be discovered. Speak then, and quickly. I promise obedience
in all matters, faithfully and truly.”
“Then,” replied Rudenfranck, “it is thus. Meet me to-night, as the moon
casts a straight shadow over the range of the Wolf Hills. You know the
dark cavern by the run, where, it is said, that old Schwearenheim was
carried off bodily, by the Evil One——”
“It is a fearful place, and a fearful hour,” said Adolf.
“Fool, thou hast gone too far to recede. Only hint at doing so, and, by
all the fiends of hell, I withdraw every hope of my assistance from
thee. Wilt thou excite the expectations of Barbara, only to dash them
again to the earth? Wilt thou thus vacillate, until it becomes too late
to save her from Mienckel? If thou dost so, thou art the veriest
driveller that wears man’s attire. Mark me, and answer not. Meet me
there, at the cave, when the midnight hour arrives; and hark thee, thou
must procure a wafer of the consecrated host. Bring thy rifle with thee,
and leave the rest to my care.”
“Be it so,” said Adolf, “it is too late to recede.”
“See that thou fail not,” said Rudenfranck, “and now promise to
Mullerhorn what thou wilt. Keep thou but faith with me, and thou shalt
enjoy all that thou hast ever hoped for. Be not seen with me to-day. Go
to the village. Look cheerily; procure that which I have directed thee,
and fail not at midnight.”