shing the snow from the branches
with its wings; but the others also started. Marx alone walked quietly
and undisturbed beside his little horse's thick head; he was familiar
with all the voices of the forest.

It grew colder towards morning. Ruth woke and cried, and her father,
panting for breath, asked: "When shall we rest?"

"Behind the height; ten arrow-shots farther," replied the
charcoal-burner.

"Courage," whispered the smith. "Get on the sledge, doctor; we'll push."

But Costa shook his head, pointed to the panting horse, and dragged
himself onward.

The poacher must have sent his arrows in a strange curve, for one
quarter of an hour after another slipped by, and the top was not yet
gained. Meantime it grew lighter and lighter, and the charcoal-burner,
with increasing anxiety, ever and anon raised his head, and glanced
aside. The sky was covered with clouds-the light overhead grey, dim,
and blended with mist. The snow was still dazzling, though it no longer
sparkled and glittered, but covered every object with the dull whiteness
of chalk.

Ulrich kept beside the sledge to push it. When Ruth heard him groan,
she stroked the hand that grasped the edges, this pleased him; and he
smiled.

When they again stopped, this time on the crest of the ridge, Ulrich
noticed that the charcoal-burner was sniffing the air like a hound, and
asked:

"What is it, Marxle?"

The poacher grinned, as he answered: "It's going to snow; I smell it."

The road now led down towards the valley, and, after a short walk, the
charcoal-burner said:

"We shall find shelter below with Jorg, and a warm fire too, you poor
women."

These were cheering words, and came just at the right time, for large
snow-flakes began to fill the air, and a light breeze drove them into
the travellers' faces. "There!" cried Ulrich, pointing to the snow
covered roof of a wooden hut, that stood close before them in a clearing
on the edge of the forest.

Every face brightened, but Marx shook his head doubtfully, muttering:

"No smoke, no barking; the place is empty. Jorg has gone. At
Whitsuntide--how many years ago is it?--the boys left to act as
raftsmen, but then he stayed here."

Reckoning time was not the charcoal-burner's strong point; and the empty
hut, the dreary open window-casements in the mouldering wooden walls,
the holes in the roof, through which a quantity of snow had drifted into
the only room in the deserted house, indicated that no hu