se where he then
dwelt with his father and mother.

The next evening as Henry was passing the village tavern on his
return from Dortmund, where he had been to dispose of some of the
produce of the farm, he found Nat and his companions in the midst of
a wild and noisy revel.

Henry would have rode on unmindful of their presence, but Nat, spying
his rival, and heated with wine, induced his companions to insist
upon his stopping and drinking a glass of wine with them, which
invitation Henry, after vainly attempting to be excused from,
reluctantly accepted, and, dismounting from his horse, he joined
their company.

After indulging in the proffered beverage, Henry seated himself with
his companions and joined with them in singing one of those quaint
German songs which are so full of sweetness and harmony, and which
seem to fill the air with their volume of rude but inspiring music.

After the song was finished, Nat filled his glass, and rising to his
feet said, in a taunting voice:

"Here is a health to the pretty Emerence, and here is to her loutish
lover." Saying which he deliberately threw the contents of his glass
full in the face of the astonished Henry.

With a smothered expression of rage, Henry Schulte sprang to his feet
and with one blow from his right hand, planted firmly in the face of
his insulter, he laid him prostrate upon the floor. Quickly
recovering himself, the infuriated Nat rushed at his brawny
antagonist, only to receive the same treatment, and again he went
down beneath the crushing force of that mighty fist. An ox could not
have stood up before the force of the blows of the sturdy farmer,
much less the half-intoxicated ruffian who now succumbed to its
weight.

[Illustration: "_And again he went down beneath the crushing force
of that mighty fist._"]

Foaming with rage and bleeding from the wounds he had received, Nat
Toner struggled to his feet the second time, and drawing a long,
murderous-looking knife from his bosom, he made a frantic plunge at
his assailant.

Quick as a flash, however, the iron grip of Henry Schulte's right
hand was upon the wrist of the cowardly Nat, and with a wrench of his
left hand the knife was wrested from him and thrown out of the
window. Then Henry, unable to further restrain his angry feelings,
shook his aggressor until his teeth fairly chattered, and, finally
flinging him from him with an expression of loathing, said:

"Lie there, you contemptible little be