The shades of evening were gradually enveloping the country in darkness,
as Adolf and Barbara sat together, in the mansion of the Mullerhorns.
They spoke of love and happier times, and the bright eyes of the maiden
beamed joyously upon the countenance of the youth. Adolf had learned the
art of dissimulation in a brief space of time. Alas! it is but the first
step in evil that alarms, and he, that has abandoned the paths of
virtue, but for a moment, finds it far more difficult to retrace his
steps, than to continue in the ways of error. To the enquiries of
Barbara, concerning the wealth which he had so lately acquired, he
replied, that the death of a relation, whose property was ample, had
enabled him to compete, in point of riches, even with Christopher
Mienckel. Barbara fully believed him; for true love is ever ready of
faith; and fondly pictured to herself many a scene of happiness and of
domestic felicity. Thus the evening wore on; and the hunter was startled
to hear the hour of ten strike from the clock, as he arose to quit the
society of Barbara, and to join the companion of his unhallowed
undertaking.
“Whither away to-night, and so early, Adolf?” asked Barbara, as the
hunter made ready to depart.
“I have shot a buck in the forest, and must seek aid to bring him in,”
replied Adolf.
“It is full late to seek your game in the broad forest to-night, Adolf,”
said Piet Albrecht, who had been solacing himself with a dish of
discourse with Agatha, in the kitchen, and now came to bid Barbara good
night. “Yet, if you would wish my help, to show you that I have
forgotten our difference, I don’t care if I go with you.”
“I thank thee, Piet,” replied the young man, “but the game lies far off,
and Franz Rudenfranck has promised to go with me.”
“Where have you left it?” asked Barbara.
“Deep in the forest; near the Wolf Hills. At the cave of Schwearenheim.”
“I know not,” said Piet, shuddering, “what could tempt me to go there,
so near midnight. It will be nearly that, Adolf, when you reach there,
and the cave is, the saints be good to us, an unholy spot.”
“Pshaw, Piet, this is mere superstition,” said the hunter; but his cheek
glowed, and his flesh trembled. “Why should the cave be a more unholy
spot than any other part of the forest?”
“You know as well as I do, Adolf, that few of the hunters have the
courage to pass there after dark. My father has told me awful things of
the place, and one of them happened to himself.”
“What was that, pray, Piet?” said Agatha, “did he tumble into the run,
and fancy that the water was Schiedam?”
“Nothing of the sort, Mistress Agatha,” responded Piet. “You must know
that my father was a woodsman, as bold as any man among the hills. He
happened to be late out one evening, after game; and had chased a large
mountain cat to the run, where the cat climbed up an old hollow tree. My
father followed him closely, and mounted after him; but his hold gave
way, as he was looking down the hollow, and he slipped clear through the
hole, good forty feet down the inside of the tree. Well, he thought that
his hour was come, and that he should starve to death there; for the
inside of the tree was so smooth that he could get no hold for either
hand or foot; and so he had lost all hope of ever escaping, when he saw
something black come sliding down the tree. He recommended himself to
God, and when the thing, whatever it was, came within reach, he seized
hold of it, and it climbed up again, dragging my father after it. It had
no sooner reached the top of the tree; but a loud clap of thunder was
heard, and the thing sailed away in a flame of fire, far away over the
tree tops. My father clung fast to the trunk of the tree, and slid down
the outside, after he had clambered out of the hollow; then thanking
Providence for his deliverance, he went home as fast as his legs could
carry him.”
“A wonderful tale, indeed, Piet,” said Agatha, laughing.
“Wonderful enough,” said Piet.
“Well, Piet,” said Adolf, “was this truth?”
“Truth!” replied Piet, “I should like to have heard any man tell my
father that it was otherwise.”
“Do not go to-night, dearest Adolf,” said Barbara, turning pale.
“This is mere folly, sweet Barbara. If I failed to bring home my buck,
all the hunters would cry shame upon me.”
The clock struck the half hour, and Adolf, snatching up his rifle, bade
Barbara good night, and leaving the house, struck into the path which
led to the Wolf Hills.
“Aye, aye,” said Piet, looking after him, “he doesn’t believe in any
such matters; but I fear it is no good that he is bent upon. So much
gold, too, and so lately. But it’s no affair of mine. Did you mark the
wildness of his eye, though, Agatha?”