The minister had not deceived himself when, at their departure from the
block-house, he thought he read in Lambert's and Catherine's manner
that they both perceived what he and Aunt Ursul contemplated, in spite
of all their precautions. Indeed, while Lambert was guiding the labor
of fortifying, and was himself taking an active hand in the work, his
mind was constantly oppressed with heavy cares about Conrad. His heart,
full of love, and needing love, could not bear the thought that his
brother should be so unhappy while he was so happy--that for the first
time he could not give the best part of the sunshine of life to him for
whom hitherto no sacrifice had been too heavy. No, not him could he
give--but he would give--not for all the world--not for his soul's
salvation. Here there was no doubt--there _could be_ no doubt--for this
would have been the basest treachery toward himself, and toward the
dear girl who had trustfully given him her pure maiden heart. And
yet--and yet--
Catherine's heart was scarcely less sad. She held Lambert so
unspeakably dear, and her first experience must be that she was
bringing to her beloved great suffering as her first gift. She saw,
indeed, no mark of sorrow in the countenance of the precious man. She
had learned too well to read those smooth and honorable lines. There
was no dark cloud on that open brow, no gloomy falling of those mild,
blue eyes, no sad contortion about the mouth, which otherwise so
readily and often opened in friendly smiles, but which was now closed
so fast.
Thus they, without needing to speak about winning back Conrad, had
thought and brooded; and when Aunt Ursul, yesterday, brought in the
minister, and scarcely left the good man time to sit down and eat his
dinner, but soon drove him up again and with him left the block-house,
and a few minutes after returned and called Pluto out, as though she no
longer placed any reliance on Melac, her watch-dog at home, Lambert and
Catherine gave each other an expressive look, and as soon as they were
alone fell into each other's arms and said:
"Perhaps, perhaps everything will come out right yet."
However sad the minds of the lovers, they kept their sadness to
themselves; and the rest were little inclined to trouble themselves
about an anxiety which was so carefully concealed from them; though
Richard Herkimer, Lambert remembered, had said it was a pity that
Conrad should just at this time show his folly. The others had spoken
in a similar manner, but with that on their part the matter was laid
aside. With or without Conrad, they were determined to do their duty;
and this certainty raised the spirits of the brave young men to
unwonted courage. One added circumstance gave a peculiar impulse to
this courageous feeling and enabled them to look upon the very
important position in which they found themselves in an entirely poetic
light. The excellent young men were all quite enchanted with
Catherine's beauty and loveliness, and gave to this enchantment the
most harmless and delightful expression. If Catherine at the table said
a friendly word, there shone five pairs of white rows of teeth. If she
expressed a wish, or only indicated one with her eyes, ten hands were
stretched out--ten legs began to move. Wherever she went or stood, she
had two or three attentive listeners at her side who watched with the
greatest eagerness and sought to anticipate her wishes. It was a
conviction firmly fixed in the mind of each that for Catherine's sake
they were willing not only to be killed, but to die in the most
barbaric manner the cruel nature of the Indian had discovered. So, on
one occasion, when Lambert was not present, in an overflow of heroism,
on Richard Herkimer's special suggestion, they all five had agreed and
had shaken hands on it and promised that, whichever of them should
outlive the rest, before he died himself he would kill Catherine, so
that she should not fall into the enemy's hands.
This agreement of tragic sacrifice did not in any way hinder the five
heroes from trying their wit on each other, and, together with their
sympathy for the beautiful maiden, to tease and joke each other in
every way. Poor Adam had to suffer the most from this habit. They tried
to convince the good young man that Lambert had laid away a bullet
which was not intended for the French, and that they were not surprised
that Lambert should think no one dangerous to him besides Adam. Fritz
Volz and Richard Herkimer--that he well knew himself--had already made
their selection. Jacob Ehrlich and Anton Bierman were secretly weeping
for their treasures that they had left on the Mohawk. Adam had already
for years been going about like a roaring lion seeking whom he might
devour; that he was a wandering terror and a constant care for all
bridegrooms and unmarried young men; that the others had been commanded
to come, but that Adam came of his own accord; and that he should tell
them to what end and for what purpose, as he stood guard last evening,
he had sung so sweetly: "How beautiful shines on us the morning star,"
that Catherine had cried and said: "Now listen to Adam, who sings
sweeter than a nightingale."
Adam did not fail to reply to his tormentors. They should only concern
themselves about their own affairs; that he knew what he was about.
Then again, in a weeping tone, he would beg and beseech the friends to
tell him truly whether Lambert had indeed formed such a shameful
purpose, and whether Catherine had really found and declared his
singing so fine, and that in this life she only wanted one thing and
that was a blonde lock from the head of the singer to take with her
into the grave. The friends swore high and low that each of them had
heard it out of Catherine's own mouth, and that each of them had
promised to fulfill her special wish, and that Adam should now freely
give up his scalp-lock before the Indians took it by force and the skin
with it. Adam resisted, and called for help until the surrounding space
resounded with shouts and laughter.
It was in the afternoon when Lambert, driven from the house by unrest,
walked slowly along the bank of the creek up toward the woods. He
stopped a moment and shook his head as the noise from the house struck
his ear, and then again went on. They could joke and laugh, those good
comrades, in this hour of sorrow and need, which oppressed his soul
with leaden weight. And yet they well knew that this hour might be
their last. They also had parents at home and sisters, and one and
another had a girl whom he loved, and the life of these people also
hung on the cast of a die. But then, they were all much younger than
he, and took life so much lighter--as light as one must take it at last
and be done with it so as not to sink under the burden. Was he not
already too old to load more on himself--he, to whom the old burden was
already so heavy to carry? How often had the rest jeered him on this
account; called him Hans the dreamer; using as a by-word when anything
more serious occurred: "For this let God and Lambert Sternberg
provide." Yes, indeed, he had learned to know care early enough, when
his mother died leaving him alone with his peevish, passionate father;
and he had to play the mediator between him and the wild Conrad, and
their relatives and the rest. And then, after his father's death, all
the labor for the common good fell upon him, if there was any failure
on the part of the neighbors. So he had always labored and cared, and
had well understood this spring that he must undertake the difficult
and responsible mission to New York. He had undertaken it, as he did
everything which was too burdensome for others, without thinking of
pay, without expecting the thanks of those who had given him their
commission. Now heaven had so arranged that he should find her from
whom one look, one word was pay and thanks for all that he had
done--for all that he had suffered. The pay was too great, the thanks
were too much. He had perceived this from the beginning. Who could
honorably begrudge him his unexpected happiness, obtained after fearful
misgivings? Not the neighbors, who would hardly forgive him for
preferring a stranger to their daughters. Not Aunt Ursul, who, though
her honest and righteous disposition strove against it, yet would
rather see Conrad in his place. And Conrad himself--his only, his
beloved brother--yes, that was the deepest grief; that was the drop
bitter as gall, poured into the sweet draught of love, and which he
must always taste. It ought not to be so. If this should not be so what
purpose, what meaning had the rest? Why care for a future that could no
more bring him true joy? Why cling to a life that had become so
burdensome to him? Why undertake the heavy conflict that was imminent?
Why hope to come out of this battle as victor? There the grass was
growing in his fields. Must it be trampled? There his cattle were,
wandering in the wilderness. Must they fall as booty into the hands of
the enemy? There stood his barn. Must it go up in flames? There was his
strongly built house. Must he and she be buried beneath its fragments?
Thus, in deep, oppressive anxiety, Lambert stood at the edge of the
forest, looking over the valley that contained his home, glittering in
the bright sunlight. There was no noise in the wide circuit except the
buzz of insects over the soft bending grass and flowers of the prairie,
and an occasional bird-note from the branches of the dark-green pines
which, motionless, drank in the heat of the sun. Was then everything
which had passed through his brain a heavy, fearful dream, out of which
he could wake when he pleased? Was the signal pile there, which with
its smoke and fire should warn the rest down the creek, erected for a
joke? Did Aunt Ursul, who, full of care, had the evening before sent
Fritz Volz at a late hour to tell them that she had certain knowledge
that the enemy was quite near, and that they should keep the sharpest
watch--did Aunt Ursul only imagine that it was so?
There! What sound was that which that instant struck his sharp ear out
of the woods? There was a cracking and crushing in the dry branches, as
when a deer runs with full speed through the bushes. No, It is not a
deer. He now clearly heard another sound which could only be produced
by the foot of a man running for his life. Nearer and nearer, down the
creek, down the steep, stony, bushy path, in mad leaps, as when a stone
is pushed down over a slope, came the runner.
A sudden, joyful fear rushed through Lambert's soul. In all the world
but one foot could step like that--his brother's foot. In breathless,
intense emotion he stands there, his wildly beating heart almost
leaping from his breast. He wishes to call, but the sound sticks in his
throat. He tries to run to meet him, but his knees tremble under him.
At the next moment Conrad, breaking through the bushes, is at his side,
and his faithful dog with mighty leaps comes with him.
"Conrad!" cried Lambert, "Conrad!"
He rushed to his brother and encircled him in his arms. All that had
just now troubled him so dreadfully is forgotten. Now come what will,
it is worth while to live, and also, if it must be, to die.
"Are they coming, Conrad?"
"In one hour they will be here!"