While Lambert had been engaged within there came through the door a bright light, which Catherine now saw was produced by a large pine fagot burning in a corner of the room near a great stone-hearth. The room was half kitchen and store-room, and half living-room--such as the young woman had become acquainted with in many a farm-house where she had rested during her journey. It was fitted up with various utensils hanging on the walls and ceiling, standing in corners and lying on the floor. Near the hearth there were a couple of rough pine chairs, and, against the wall, a large four-cornered table, serving both for a dressing-table and for meals. There still stood on it a couple of earthen dishes on which were the remains of a meal to which a bear's ham, which had not again been hung upon its hook, contributed the principal part. The entire arrangement was planned on the basis of the simplest necessity. There was no trace of an endeavor after grace and beauty, or the merely agreeable. This observation, that the young maiden made with her first glance about the room, fell upon her heart even more heavily than the empty house. The house would fill up when the absent ones returned, but would she be happy in the company of those who lived here, who called it their home?
"I must look after my horse," said Lambert, "and after the rest of the things. You may meanwhile prepare the evening meal--you will probably find something. We will after that consider your sleeping apartment. It looks very bad here, but Conrad knows nothing about order. However, you can have a chamber upstairs. I will sleep below. I shall not go far, and will soon be back. Do not be afraid."
He said all this forcibly, in snatches, while prying into the corners, so that she scarcely understood him. Then he quickly left the house, and she heard him outside untie the horse and go away with it.
"Do not be afraid! Should I be so it would not be strange. How wonderful it all is! But he has been so heavenly kind to me, a poor girl; and surely his intentions are as honorable and true as ever. Where can they be? They must certainly be at some neighbor's." She had seen at a distance from the creek a couple of roofs. "Does he still expect them back? Now I will do what becomes a good maid who expects her master. What shall I begin with? Yes, that is it. So, it will soon begin to look more cheerful."
She turned to the hearth and in a few minutes had made a bright fire with the dry, prepared pine wood that lay near. Then she took from the hook the kettle that hung by a chain against the wall and filled it half full of water, which she drew from a pump that stood directly beside the hearth. She sought and soon found whatever else was needed for the preparation of the evening meal. She was uncertain of the number for whom she was to provide. She finally concluded that six would be the correct number: Lambert's parents, his brother Conrad, of whom he had spoken a couple of times, Lambert himself, and perhaps there might be another member of the family, or they might bring a guest with them. When she had finished this work she began to put the room in order, but only what would come right with but little labor. "For," said she, "I have no right to do it, and they might be displeased with me."
She had thus quietly labored for a quarter of an hour, and as there was for the moment nothing more to do and the water in the kettle was boiling, she went to the hearth and looked at the flaming fire, thinking that it must at least be time for Lambert to return. She heard a noise behind her. She turned half around and was greatly frightened when she saw, but a few steps from her, instead of Lambert, a stranger staring at her without moving, with a look of such wonder, as though he did not believe his own eyes. The light of the pine sticks burning with a bright flame fell full upon him. It was fortunate for Catherine that, the same moment, she saw that the giant-like man, clothed in a peculiar half-farmer, half-Indian garb, was quite young, and that his sunburned face was handsome, and that his great, wondering eyes had a merry look.
And now the young giant leaned his rifle, which he had allowed to slip to the floor, against the table, gave his strong hands a ringing slap, broke out in very loud laughter, threw himself into a chair which cracked in spite of its strong construction, sprang up again and approached the maiden, who drew back somewhat, again began to laugh, though not so loud, then was silent, shook his short, brown locks and said:
"Lambert has done this well; but where is the other one?"
Catherine did not answer. She did not know what to think of the words of the young man though they affected her disagreeably, and her heart began to beat powerfully.
The young giant looked about the room as though searching whether any one were hidden there. He then again directed his glances toward Catherine, but with a different expression in the large eyes which now shone with a deeper light. He said through his white teeth:
"You are handsome, girl. I have never before seen anything so beautiful. What is your name?"
"Catherine," said the young maiden, who felt that she must say something. "Catherine Weise. You are Conrad, Lambert's brother. I see it by the resemblance. Your brother Lambert has been very kind to me--very kind. We have just arrived. He has gone to put the horse in the stable. I think he will soon be here. You should have met him. Will the others also come soon?"
"Who should come?" asked Conrad.
"Your parents," said Catherine. She said it very faintly, fear, increasing every moment, almost strangling her.
Conrad showed his white teeth. "Our parents!" cried he, "our parents! They are long since dead. You must be satisfied with us two."
"I will look for Lambert," said Catherine, and tried to pass Conrad to the door. Conrad stepped in her way.
"So," said he smiling provokingly, "then Lambert has brought you along for himself, the cunning fellow--and I must look further. Now, as for myself, I am the younger man and can wait a little; but one kiss, beautiful sister-in-law, that you must give me--that is the least."
He stretched out his powerful hands and with giant strength insolently drew the resisting girl to him and kissed her glowing cheeks.
At this moment the water, which for a long time had simmered, noisily, sissing and whizzing, poured over the edge of the kettle in a large swell into the fire which it almost extinguished. A thick, gray vapor, through which the light of the fire looked red, rose and filled the room. Catherine tore herself loose, or was torn loose, she could not tell which; but there were now two persons there struggling together, and the other might well be Lambert. She also thought she had heard Lambert call her name, and so again, as outside the evening wind fanned her cheeks glowing with anger and shame.
Within, the vapor had disappeared. Conrad, having disengaged himself with a powerful effort from his assailant, fell laughing on his neck.
"Lambert, dear, best Lambert!"
"Let me go!" said Lambert, freeing himself from the embrace. "Let me go. Catherine!"
He looked with wandering, anxious eyes about the poorly lighted room.
"She has gone out," said Conrad. "I will bring her again for you."
"No, no,Iwill, I must," called Lambert, already at the door. "At least take me along--I beg you, Conrad, let me. I will afterwards explain everything to you. Catherine! For the mercy of God! She may have fallen into the creek!"
"Stupid stuff!" said Conrad, who, less excited than his brother, had cast his eyes, sharp as those of a falcon, in every direction. "There she sits, there, do you see?"
"I will go to her alone."
"You may, so far as I am concerned. And Lambert, listen, have you not also brought me a wife?"
But Lambert was already hastening with beating heart to the place where he saw Catherine sit, or lie, he could not tell which, on account of the distance and the evening twilight which now prevailed.
Catherine had run straight forward from the hill on which the house stood until she saw the creek at her feet. She now ran along its edge, scarcely knowing what she wished to do, or whither to go, driven by the painful feeling that the man whom she had trusted as she did her God, had deceived her. She could not make it clear to herself. Everything had come so quickly--had passed like a shadow in the smoke and mist from the fire on the hearth. What she had conceived to be a family, consisted of two brothers fighting with each other--fighting on her account. And this was the end of her long pilgrimage, which she had begun in such a hopeful spirit--with a constantly increasing confidence--yes, at last with wonderful joyfulness. This the end! "O, my God, my God!" groaned the young girl, stopping and looking anxiously into the wilderness which in fearful silence surrounded her, the night with its gathering darkness settling down upon her. "O, my God, my God!"
A bridge, consisting of an immense tree trunk, led across the creek at the place where she now was. She had already set one foot on the dangerous crossing when it suddenly became dark before her eyes. Involuntarily she turned and sank back on her knees, laying her head against the trunk of the tree. Her senses forsook her.
Then, as if from a great distance, she heard her name called, "Catherine!" Again, but now quite near, "Catherine!" She opened her eyes. Near her in the grass kneeled Lambert. He had seized her powerless hands. His long, smooth, brown hair fluttered confusedly in the evening wind about his pale, anxious face.
"Catherine," he said again, "can you forgive me?" She looked at him. She wished to say: "Why have you done this to me?" But her heart was too full. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. Others followed them unrestrained. She wished to withdraw her hands from those of Lambert. He, however, in his desperation, held her fast, and in a despairing voice, cried: "For God's sake, Catherine, listen to me. I meant it well. I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I could not. I thought you would not so willingly go with me if you knew the actual state of things. I endured a great fear, as you may have perceived, when we passed through Albany and Schenectady and the valley of the Mohawk, where they all know me. I always went first into the houses to beg the people not to speak to you of my situation. To-day I left the road and came on through the woods so that nobody here on the creek should meet me. It was not right; it was very foolish; it was bad in me that I did not requite your confidence with confidence on my part; but I did not know how to help myself. For God's sake, forgive me, Catherine."
She had now withdrawn her hands and laid them across her breast. Lambert had risen. He brushed his hair from his face. With all the thoughts that crossed his brain, with all the feelings that filled his breast, he knew not what more he should say--what he had said.
"Catherine, believe me, oh, believe me! I had not thought when I reached New York that I should not return alone to my home. I will take you back again--will take you where you will. My uncle Christian Ditmar and his wife, my aunt, are old and childless and will be glad to have you; and Conrad and I will again live as we have hitherto. Conrad has ever been to me a kind and faithful brother, and he now feels very sorry that he has so offended you. We will both watch over you--watch over you all--as we always have here where we are the farthest settlers. However, as you will, Catherine, as you will."
She had now raised herself up, and, as she stood there in the light of the moon which had for some time risen above the edge of the forest, Lambert thought that the beloved maiden had never before appeared so beautiful.
She had folded her hands, and, not looking at Lambert, but upward, she said softly but firmly: "I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg--come what will."
They walked back toward the house, side by side, the moon shining in the deep blue sky with radiant clearness. From time to time Lambert cast sly glances at the beloved one. He had yet so much to tell her--so very much--but he would not speak since she herself was silent, and he knew that she could speak more beautifully than he had ever heard any one speak before. It was also so well and he was so thankful that at last the burden was lifted from his soul, and that she had forgiven him and would entirely forgive him when she learned how much he had suffered.
This Catherine had already perceived in the painful vehemence of a man otherwise so quiet and self-contained. She had felt it in the storm that had swept through her own soul. Now after the turmoil of the storm she was at peace. What had happened? Was everything that she silently hoped, lived upon, cherished, forever destroyed? Or, amid thunder-claps, did a new world bloom far more beautiful than she had ever dreamed?
Thus, lost in their own peculiar thoughts, they again reached the house.
"Do you come at last?" said Conrad.
He was standing in the door which he now opened wide for the two. Then he gave his hand to Catherine and his brother and greeted them for the first time. "You before took me so by surprise," said he, "that I did not know where my head stood. In what a confusion everything about here lay! It had become somewhat disordered during the two months that you, Lambert, was away. You know I do not well understand housekeeping. I came home a couple of hours ago, having been upon Black River for eight days after beaver. However, instead of beaver I found Onondagas, whose manner was far from friendly--the cursed scoundrels. I went to Uncle Ditmar's who had, meanwhile, kept our cows. Bless has calved. Ditmar will keep the calf if you do not wish to raise it. Take seats here. I have meanwhile rearranged the evening meal as well as I could after my awkward interference. There is baked ham, your favorite dish, Lambert."
Conrad was unusually busy while he thus spoke. He set the chairs to the table, pulled them back, that he might wipe them off with his brown hand, and then set them up again. Again and again he put wood on the fire, so that the fire crackled and the flame went roaring up the chimney. For no definite reason, except that it had to be so, he kicked his wolfhound, Pluto, while she, having just come in, kept blinking at Catherine with her large yellow eyes. He himself did not look at the strange girl, and when his glance accidentally passed over her face he became red and embarrassed, and speedily turned his eyes away again.
In this way he acted during the whole meal. He talked, stood up, sat down again, tried to put things in order, but brought them into greater confusion, so that Lambert became red in the face and thanked the Lord when he saw Catherine smiling in a friendly way. She thought she could interpret Conrad's conduct in his favor. It was apparent enough that it had not made an unfavorable impression on the young and beautiful girl. It cost her no trouble now and again to return a friendly word to his talk. Lambert was astonished, and it sounded strange to him as she once laughed in the same cheerful, soft tone in which she spoke. He had not heard her laugh once during her whole journey.
So he sat there full of thankful joy that everything had turned out so well after he had been very despondent and was filled with secret unrest like one who, having with difficulty escaped a great danger, does not venture to yield to the feeling of security and seems to feel the ground shaking under his feet.
But as the meal was now drawing to a close another care began to press upon him with increasing weight. During the journey, in the farm-houses which they entered, which were often very small, it had happened more than once that he had passed the night in the same room with the family and his companion. Two or three nights when they could reach no human habitation they had taken their rest in the forest, and he had seen the beloved maiden by the light of the camp-fire sleeping peacefully, while he looked up through the tops of the trees and thanked God that he was permitted to watch over her slumber. But this occurred on the journey--an unusual condition, which could not and should not last. There was in the upper story a store-room partitioned off, in which one of the brothers used to sleep, while the other had his simple couch in a small recess in the lower room. The brothers had hit upon this arrangement the preceding year, when the inroads of the French necessitated redoubled watchfulness. Afterwards, though the danger was over, they had kept up the custom until Lambert's departure. Lambert had thought of each room for Catherine, but Conrad had mentioned during the meal that, on his eight-days' excursion, he had learned that the French were stirring again. Consequently renewed watchfulness was necessary, and that since Lambert must be very tired from his journey, he would undertake the watch for that night.
"Then we will in turn both watch above," said Lambert after a pause. "Catherine will be satisfied for the night here below. To-morrow we will make a better arrangement for her. Is that satisfactory, Catherine?"
"Quite so," replied the young woman. "I saw in the recess sweet-smelling hay, and here is the beautiful white bear-skin; do not trouble yourselves. I shall get along all right. Good night."
She gave Lambert her hand and then Conrad, who looked on with surprise. He wondered at his brother, and followed him up the narrow stairway after they had bolted and barricaded the door.
Catherine watched them as they ascended, drew a deep breath, passed her hand over her forehead, and began to clear away the supper table, and to wash up and put away the dishes, that she might with better courage carry forward the work of reducing things to order which she had before timidly begun. This took a long time. Often she stood benumbed in the midst of her work with her hand pressed against her forehead. Her heart was so full she could have sat down and shed a flood of tears. At the same time a firm, unchecked serenity filled her soul, such as she had experienced when quite a young thing playing at forfeits when the band of children in their colored dresses wildly pursued each other.
Then awakened out of such strange dreams, she again quietly continued her work, and at last looked about the room with a self-satisfied air, since it had now assumed quite a different appearance. Having carefully put out the fire on the hearth, she sought her modest couch that she had prepared in the recess on the farther side of the large room.
Through the narrow port-holes in the thick plank wall there stole in streaks of the moon's rays, spreading about her a faint twilight. It was easy to breathe in the fresh forest exhalation which blew in at the openings and played about her cheeks. The brook purled uninterruptedly. From time to time there was a rustle, first gentle, then swelling out, and then again holding back like the tones of an organ. It was the solemn music of the primitive forest. She had already noticed this music on her journey when, sleeping under the trees on gathered moss, she, with dream-veiled, half-open eyes, saw Lambert sitting at the camp-fire. She could now also hear his step as he made the round of the gallery above. Conrad's tread would be heavier. Once he stopped directly over her head. Was he looking in the distance for the blood-thirsty enemies? or was he listening to the mocking-bird's wonderful song which she had for some time noticed coming from the forest in soft, sobbing tones, as the nightingale had warbled, over in her German home, in the linden tree at the gable of the parsonage. Then again it, shrieked like a vexatious parrot, or laughed like a magpie. This sounded quite ludicrous. Then it was no more the mockingbird's twofold, demon-like singing, but two human voices, and Lambert spoke in excited, suffering tones: "Catherine, can you forgive me?" and Conrad laughed, saying: "Catherine is not at all angry," and she had to smile, and with a smile on her lips she fell asleep.
Meanwhile, as Catherine had correctly supposed, Lambert, walking slowly over the floor of the gallery, kept watch, though Conrad, recurring to what he had reported, assured him that, for the present, the danger of which he had before spoken did not exist, and that he had only mentioned it that he might have good grounds for leaving. He then became very angry as Lambert replied, "I do not know what you mean," threw himself on the bed in the watch-chamber and declared that he was too tired to say another word.
However he did not sleep, for as Lambert, after an hour, softly walked past the open door of the watch-chamber, he thought he heard his name spoken. He stopped and looked in.
"Did you call me, Conrad?"
"Yes," replied Conrad, who had raised himself on his elbow, "I wished to ask you something."
"What?"
"Are you then not married?"
"No; why?"
"Oh! I only asked; so good night."
"Conrad, dear Conrad, I wish with all my heart to tell you everything." But Conrad had already sunk back on the bear skin and had fallen asleep, or pretended that he had.
Lambert went sadly out. "To-morrow," said he to himself, "before we see Catherine, he shall know it, and he will help me, and all will be well."
Lambert, having, in the early morning, lain down by the side of Conrad, awoke late and found his brother gone. He had left the block-house at sunrise. Catherine was up and occupied about the hearth when Conrad lightly descended the stairs. He was in a great hurry, and declined the morning soup which she offered him. He would certainly be back before night. Then he took his rifle, hung about him his game bag, and, with Pluto at his heels, went up the creek with long strides.
"The wild youth," said Lambert.
He was quite displeased with Conrad, but that he had intentionally avoided him did not enter his mind. Conrad had acted strangely enough last evening, but then the older brother was accustomed to the unreliable, crisp and often silly humors of the younger one. "Why should Conrad give up a hunt to-day which perhaps he had prearranged with his companions? He will doubtless return by noon with a fat deer and a woodman's appetite."
So said Lambert while, standing at the hearth, he partook of his morning meal. However he did not say that, on the whole, he was not so much put out by his brother's absence--that he reluctantly gave up the sweet habit of being alone with Catherine that he might talk freely with her.
But this morning the pleasant conversation was wanting. Catherine was still and, as Lambert now saw, was pale, and her beaming, brown eyes were veiled. Now that the end of her journey had been reached she felt how great the strain had been; but soon, smiling, accommodated herself to the situation.
"You need not feel concerned," said she. "In a couple of days--perhaps hours--all will be regained. I will not boast, but I have always been able to accomplish what others could, and often a little more, and, if you are not too strict a master, you shall be satisfied with your maid-servant."
To Lambert it seemed as if the sun had suddenly been overcast. With trembling hand he put down the cup which he had not yet entirely emptied.
"You are not my maid-servant, Catherine," he said gently.
"Yes I am, Lambert, yes I am, though you magnanimously tore up the evidence of my indebtedness," replied the young maiden. "I owe you none the less on that account. The debt is now doubled. You know it well and yet it is proper for me to say it. I desired to be to you a good and faithful maid-servant--to you and yours. I supposed nothing else but that your parents were still alive, and I heartily rejoiced that I could serve them. You said nothing about your parents, I think, because you did not wish to make me feel sad. Now your parents, like mine, are dead, and you live here alone with your brother, so I am your maid-servant and your brother's."
Lambert made a motion as though he wished to reply, but his half-raised arm fell powerless, and his opened lips again closed. He had intended to say: "I love you, Catherine. Do you not see it?" How could he now say it?
Catherine continued:
"I beg you, Lambert, with this understanding, to talk with your brother, if you have not already done so. You are the elder and know me better. He is young and impetuous, as it seems, and now sees me for the first time. And now, Lambert, you surely have something better to do than to stand here and talk with me. I have to clear away a little here yet, and will follow you should you not go far, if you do not object. I should like to see all, and know about every part."
She turned to him and gave him her hand. "Does that please you?" she asked smiling.
"Entirely, entirely," replied Lambert. Tears stood in his eyes, but the dear girl wanted it so, and that was enough.
"I will first go to the barn-yard," said he, "and then into the forest. This afternoon I intended to go to Uncle Ditmar's. Perhaps you will accompany me."
He went out hastily. Catherine looked at him with sad smiles. "You good, dear, best man," said she, "it is not my fault that I distress you, but I must think of us all. The madcap will probably now be satisfied."
Catherine now felt herself somewhat relieved of the weight that had lain on her heart since the peculiar scene with Conrad in the morning. Involuntarily she constantly thought about how alarmed Conrad appeared when, as he came down the narrow, steep stairs, he found her already on the hearth; how he had then approached her and stared at her with his large, glistening eyes, and had said: "Are you man and wife, or are you not? If you are, then it will be best for me to send a bullet through my head; but, lie not--for God's sake, do not lie, otherwise I will indeed shoot myself, but first surely both of you."
Then as Catherine drew back from the violence, he began to laugh. "Now, one does not lightly shoot such a brother dead, who is so good that he could not be better, and a girl who is so handsome, so wonderfully beautiful. So far as I am concerned I need feel no anxiety about being shot dead. This can happen to me any day. Pluto, beast, are you again staring at her? Wait! I will teach you manners." With this he hastened away. Outside Pluto howled grievously, as though she would teach Catherine that her master was not accustomed to indulge in vain threats.
"Now he will be satisfied," said Catherine, yet a couple of times, while she cleared away the breakfast and made some preparations for the simple dinner. To-day she did not, like yesterday, have to gather up laboriously what she needed; everything was at her hand. Everything appeared as if familiar to her--as though she had known it from youth up. She hummed her favorite song, "Were I a wild falcon I would soar aloft," and then interrupted herself and said: "It has been childish for me to be so fearful. He loves him; that one sees clearly. He has called him the best brother, and surely, at the bottom of his heart, he is kind though his eyes have so wild a look. Before glittering eyes which are so handsome one needs not be afraid. But Lambert's eyes are still handsomer."
Catherine stepped to the door. It was a most beautiful spring morning. Small white clouds passed quietly over the light blue sky. Golden stars danced in the creek. Dew-drops sparkled in the luxuriant grass of the meadow--here in emerald green, in blue and purple shades there. The woods which encircled the hill on which the house stood looked down quietly. Over a rocky height that projected steep out of the forest there hovered a great eagle with extended wings sporting in the balmy air that was breathing through the valley and whose every puff was charged with balsamic aroma.
Catherine folded her hands and her eyes filled with tears. It seemed to her as if she were again standing in the small church of her home village, and that she heard her father's mild voice pronounce the benediction over the congregation: "The Lord let the light of His countenance fall upon you and give you peace."
The last remains of unrest had passed away from her and, in her present mood, she went to seek Lambert, whom she supposed to be at the buildings which, as she passed around the block-house, she saw standing at some distance towards the forest.
She found him working at a hedge which inclosed part of a field in which the lance-shaped, bright leaves of the Indian-corn waved in the morning wind. Young, red-blossomed apple trees, whose trunks had been carefully wound with thorns, had been planted around the fields.
"This the deer did last night," said Lambert, as he approached a damaged place. "Here are the fresh tracks. Conrad knows how to keep them respectful, but during the eight days that he has been away they have again become bold."
"I will help you," said Catherine, after she had looked on for a few minutes.
"This is no labor for you," said Lambert, looking up.
"So, once for all, you must not speak," serenely replied Catherine. "If you want a princess in your house you must at once send me away again. I own myself unfit for that."
Lambert smiled with pleasure when he saw how skillfully she took hold of the matter, and how handy she was. He now noticed for the first time that the roses had again blossomed on her cheeks; and as she now, in helping him, bent over and back, the agreeable play of the lines of her slender, girlish body filled him with trembling delight.
"But you also should not be unemployed," said Catherine.
The young man, blushing deeply, returned to his work with redoubled zeal, so that it was soon completed.
"What comes next?" asked Catherine.
"I intended to go up into the woods to look after my pine trees. There will be probably more to do there than here, where my kind uncle has kept every thing so well in order. But about woodcraft he understands little or nothing; and Conrad concerns himself only with his hunting. It was fortunate that I could do the chief labor before I left home in the spring."
He hung the gun, which leaned against the hedge near him, over his shoulder and looked at Catherine.
Lingering he said: "Will you go with me? It is not far."
"That is truly fortunate," said Catherine. "You know I am shy of long roads. Will you not rather saddle Hans?"
She called the horse, grazing in an enclosure near by, in which there was also a small flock of black-wooled sheep. He pricked up his ears, came slowly, swinging his tail, and put his head over the bars.
"You good Hans," said Catherine, brushing the thick forelock out of the eyes of the animal, "I gave you a good deal of trouble on the long journey."
"The trouble was not so very great. Is it not so, old Hans?" said Lambert.
Hans seemed to think that to such an idle question no answer was necessary and went on quietly chewing his last mouthful of grass. The young people stood and looked on and stroked the head and neck of the animal, while in the branches of a blossoming apple tree a robin-redbreast sang. Their hands touched. Lambert's large eyes assumed a determined expression and then were raised with a cordial look to the blushing face of the maiden.
"Now you must also show me the barn-yard," said Catherine.
"Cheerfully," said Lambert.
They entered the barn-yard which like the house was inclosed with a stone-wall of the height of a man, and contained several low buildings formed of logs. First the stable in which, in the winter and in bad weather, Hans, the cows and the sheep stayed quietly together. This was now empty with the exception of a couple of half-grown pigs grunting within a partition, and a large flock of hens and turkeys which had been contentedly scratching in the straw, but now, frightened at the unwelcome intrusion, cackling and flying apart rushed out of the open door. Then they entered the work-shop, in which Lambert worked during the winter, and where, besides excellent timber and all kinds of tools, there were standing, begun and finished, tubs which would have done credit to a cooper.
"In the fall these are all filled with tar and rosin," said Lambert, "and sent to Albany. It won't be long before I must stick to this, and my Uncle Ditmar, of whom I learned coopering, will help me, I suppose, and also Conrad, though he does not like mechanical labor. Still he can do anything he pleases, and does it better than one who devotes his life to it."
Catherine was pleased to hear that Lambert was so proud of his younger brother, but did not speak of it. It seemed to her as if a dark shadow had passed over her heart, which had but now been as sunny as the surrounding golden, spring landscape.
They left the barn-yard and, ascending by degrees, soon reached the edge of the woods, which here extended back farther from the level ground, so that, as they turned about, the valley lay like a great meadow in the woods, in the midst of which was the blockhouse on the hill. The creek was concealed by the reeds which fringed its shore. Deep peace rested in happy quietude on the earth in its morning freshness. But up in the air there appeared an unusual spectacle. The eagle which Catherine had before observed had been joined by another. They sailed directly over the house and wound their circles together swifter and ever swifter until, with loud outcries, they rushed against each other, striking with their mighty wings, whirling round each other, clasping each other, and falling like a stone. Then again they separated, sailed aloft, again rushed together, until at length one flew toward the woods followed by the other.
"A hateful sight," said Catherine. "The angry beasts!"
"We are accustomed to that," said Lambert.
Catherine was greatly disturbed by this battle scene. Involuntarily she had again to think of Conrad.
As they now turned into the woods she asked:
"Do you truly love your brother?"
"And he me," said Lambert.
"He is yet so young," Catherine began again.
"Ten years younger than I. I am thirty-two. Our mother died when he was born. Good Aunt Ditmar, our sainted mother's sister, took him home since my father and I, poor youngster, naturally did not know how to help ourselves. When he was a couple of years old he came again to us, though his aunt would gladly have kept him. But father did not stand any too well with uncle, and was jealous, fearing that his child would become entirely estranged from him. So I waited on and brought up the little orphaned rogue as best I could, and, since he grew so, I thought that any mother would be proud of the boy. Then, when I could no longer carry him, I played with him, and taught him the little I had learned, and so we have been together day and night, and an angry word has never passed between us, though he was as wild and intractable as a young bear. Father's position in respect to him was very difficult, being himself a determined man and quite passionate. Once, being at variance, father raised his hand against the eleven-year-old boy, who was as brave and proud as a man. He ran away into the woods and did not return, so that we thought that he had either committed suicide, or had been torn in pieces by the bears. Meanwhile my young gentleman stuck among the Indians at Oneida Lake and did not let anything be seen or heard of him for three years, until, a few days after father's death, he suddenly entered the block-house where I sat alone and sad. At first I did not know him, for he had grown a couple of heads taller and was dressed in Indian style. But he fell upon my neck and wept bitterly, and said:
"'I heard by chance that our father was lying on his death-bed. I have been walking three days and three nights to see him again.' In the midst of his weeping he threw back his head and, with sparkling eyes, exclaimed: 'But do not think that I have forgiven him for striking me; but I am sorry that I ran away.' So he came again as he had gone, wild and proud, and at the next moment soft and kind."
Lambert was silent. After a short pause he said: "I wish I had told you all this before; you would then not have been so frightened last evening."
"And this morning," said Catherine to herself.
Lambert continued: "They here call him the Indian, and the name fits him in more than one respect. At least no Indian would undertake to compete with him in those things in which they chiefly excel. In all their arts Conrad beats them; and then he loves the hunt, the forest and rambling ways just as the red-skins do. But his heart is true as pure gold, and in that he is not a red-skin, who are all as false as a jack-o'-lantern in the swamp. For this reason we all here on the Mohawk and on the Schoharie, old and young, love him. Wherever there are German settlers there he comes on his hunting expeditions, and is everywhere welcome. The people sleep without fear when he is there, for they know they are guarded by the best rifle in the colony."
Lambert's eyes brightened as he spoke about his brother. Suddenly his face became beclouded.
"Who knows," continued he, "how different it might have been last year had he been here with us? But when Belletre broke loose with his devilish Indians and his French, who are much worse devils, we were entirely unprepared. We would not believe the Indian who brought us the news. Conrad would have known what there was of it, and would soon have brought it out. But he remained above between the lakes on a hunt; so we missed his arm and rifle. Then took place the remarkable circumstance that they did not come here to Canada Creek, and that our houses escaped their ravages. This afterward caused bad blood, and one could hear whisperings about treachery, though, at the first alarm, we all hurried forward and did our share. Conrad helped us fight in his own way. He says nothing about it, but I think that many an Indian, who in the morning went hunting, was vainly waited for at his camp-fire in the evening, and has not to this day returned to his wigwam."
A shudder passed over Catherine. What had the wild man said this morning? "As far as it concerns me I need not trouble myself about being shot to death." Dreadful! Had she not seen as she came up the Mohawk valley where many houses had been burned which had not been rebuilt, the entire families having been killed by the merciless enemies? And how many plain wooden crosses in green fields, along the road, in the edge of the woods, where a peaceful farmer, a helpless wife, a playful child, had been pitilessly killed. No, no! It was an honorable conflict for house and home, for body and life--the same conflict through which her good father with his whole congregation had been driven out of Germany. They knew not how to resist their shameless and disorderly oppressors except by flight over the sea into this wilderness at the furthest west. Whither shall they yet fly, since the same enemy even here begrudges them life and freedom? Here one cannot say: "Let us forsake our houses and shake the dust from our feet." Here the word is wait, fight, conquer, or die. Not in empty threatening did the farmer as he went to his peaceful labor carry his gun on his shoulder.
"I wish I too knew how to handle the rifle," said Catherine.
"Like my Aunt Ursul," said Lambert laughing. "She shoots as well as any one of us, Conrad naturally being excepted. Nor does she leave her rifle at home. Here we are, at the pinery."
They had reached a tall forest, such as Catherine on her journey, had not hitherto seen. The powerful trunks shot up like the pillars of a dome and intertwined their mighty tops in an arch through whose dark vaults here and there red sun-rays flashed. The morning wind soughed through the wide halls, having now become stronger, and ascending, gently died at the top like the murmur of the sea.
"This seems to have stood so since the first day of creation," said Catherine.
"And yet its days are numbered," said Lambert. "In a couple of years there will be little more to be seen of it. I am sorry for the beautiful trees, and now, since you so admire them, I am doubly sorry. But there is no longer any remedy. See, here my labor begins."
A slight depression, through which a brooklet purled on its way to the creek, separated this piece of woods from another which had already been prepared the second year for the manufacture of tar. Lambert explained to his companion that each of the large trees was divided into four quarters. "In the spring, as soon as the sap begins to rise, the north quarter, where the sun has the least power, is peeled off for two feet in order to draw off the turpentine. In the fall, before the sap begins to slacken, the southern quarter is treated in the same way. The following spring the eastern side, and in the fall the western side, is in like manner peeled. Then the upper part of the tree, filled with turpentine, is cut down and split up and roasted in an oven so prepared as to secure the tar. This I will show you later. This indeed is not a pleasing sight," said Lambert, "nor will I take you farther, where the poor naked stumps stand and decay. It cannot well be otherwise. One must live, and we here on Canada Creek have nothing else, or scarcely anything else, since our small cultivated acreage must be devoted to our most urgent necessities. So must also our live stock, though we have plenty of fertile plow-land and rich meadow-land. But what can one do when he is every instant in danger, and his crops are destroyed, and his herds are driven off? They must leave us our pine trees, and our ovens can soon be rebuilt. To replace the burnt casks and utensils we make new ones. Hence it was for us a question of life or death when, last winter, Mr. Albert Livingston wished to confine us to the valley, and claimed the woods on the hills for himself, notwithstanding that we had first bought both valley and forest from the Indians, and again after that from the Government. But all this I told you often enough on the journey, and you have listened patiently, and rejoice that the business has been arranged in our favor. God be praised--"
"And your faithful care," said Catherine. "You had it hard enough on the long, tiresome journey, from which you did not return unencumbered. After you had been relieved of the old care you were laden with a new one in me, a poor, helpless girl."
"Shall I deny it?" replied Lambert. "Yes, Catherine, with you there came a new care to me. You know what I mean. I feared I had done wrong to bring you here, where everybody's life is in daily, yes, hourly danger. This indeed I did not conceal from you, though I felt that you would not on this account be frightened back. But--"
"Then don't distress yourself further about it," said Catherine. "Or do you think you have been deceived in me?"
"No," answered Lambert. "But since we are here, it has appeared to me as though I should have set the matter forth more pressingly. So I also blame myself that I let Conrad go away this morning without first more fully ascertaining what he knows about the enemy. He is too careless to take to heart anything of that kind, I should use better judgment."
"Better judgment, but not less courage," said Catherine. "If I must believe that my coming has robbed you of your cool courage, how could I forgive myself for having come here with you? No, Lambert, you must not so wrong me. I will also learn to use the rifle like Ursul. Why do you laugh?"
"I cannot think of you and the good old lady together without laughing," said Lambert.
"Perhaps I shall also live to be old, and, it is to be hoped, good. I shall then take it amiss if mischievous young people laugh at me."
"You old!" said Lambert, shaking his head. "You old! This I can conceive as little as how this rivulet must begin if it would flow up these rocks!"
They now went on between the tree-trunks down to the creek, and were walking along the edge where, in the mud of the shore, bison and deer had impressed their deep trails. The stream did not run as smoothly here as on the level ground. Its course was obstructed, now by rocks covered with moss a hundred years old, now by an immense tree-trunk which had fallen diagonally across, and whose withered branches stretched down into the brown water. A little further up it had to make its way over rocks, over which it leapt in indescribable, foam-covered cascades. From where they both stood one could see a part of the fall, like the fluttering ends of a white garment. The roar was softened by the distance and accorded remarkably well with the sound of the morning wind in the majestic tree-tops. With this exception there was an oppressive stillness in the primitive forest, which the occasional flight of a flock of pigeons overhead, the hammering of the woodpecker, the cawing of crows, the chirping of a little bird high above in the branches, and the piping of a little squirrel, seemed to make only the stiller. Soft vaporous shadows filled the woods. But in the clear space above the creek there was spread a golden twilight bewitchingly woven out of light and shadow. In this enchanting light how bright the beloved one appeared to her lover. He could not turn his eyes from her as he now sat near her feet in the moss. Her rich, dark hair which encircled her well-formed head like a crown; the beautiful, slanting brows, the long, silky eyelashes; the sweet face; the heavenly form--ah! all this, on the long journey, had made a deep impression; but now it seemed as if he had not known it before--as though he now saw for the first time that she was so beautiful, so wonderfully beautiful. Also her dark eyelashes were raised, and her glance wandered over the blue eyes which had never before seemed so deep and bright, turned back timidly, then looked again more keenly, and could no longer withdraw themselves; then out of their blue depths there came such wonderful flashes that her heart stood still, and suddenly again she felt it bounding and beating against the heart of the beloved man who held her infolded in his arms. Then they released each other. Each caught the other's hand. They sank again into each other's arms, exchanged warm kisses and promises, and laughed, and cried, and said they had loved each other from the moment in which they first saw each other, and would do so to the last.
Suddenly Catherine shrunk back. "Conrad!" she cried. "O, my God! Lambert, what are we beginning?"
"What has happened, my darling?" asked Lambert, while he sought again to draw the beloved one to him.
"No, no," said Catherine, "this must first be arranged. O, why did I not tell you? But how could I speak of it before? Now indeed I must speak, even though it be too late."
Without hesitating and in a becoming manner she told Lambert what Conrad had said in the morning, and how strange his conduct, and how threatening his appearance had been. "I seem constantly to hear his laugh," said she at last. "Great God, there he is!"
She pointed with her trembling hand up the creek to the place where, between the dark underwood, the foam-streaks of the waterfall fluttered.
"Where?" asked Lambert.
"Conrad! I thought I saw him slipping away between the trunks of the trees."
Lambert shook his head.
"Then he would be there yet," said he. "It must have been a deer that wanted to go to the spring. Surely you are causelessly frightened. I can well believe that the youth finds my beautiful girl handsome, but love as I do, that he cannot. Hereafter he will be happy in seeing me happy."
"But now I surely have heard a human voice," cried Catherine.
"I, too, this time," said Lambert, "but it came from up the creek. Hark!"
"He, holla, holla, he, ho!" it now sounded.
"That is Aunt Ursul," said Lambert. "How does she come now to be here?"
A dark shadow passed over his face, which however at once disappeared as Catherine impressed a hearty kiss on his lips, and said: "Quick, Lambert; let us now go to meet your aunt. See that she observes nothing. Do you hear?"
"There she is already," said Lambert, half vexed, half laughing, as now a large person, whose clothes were an unusual mixture of women's and men's clothing, and who, carrying a rifle on her shoulder, pressing through the bushes, soon reached the pair.