iser Max had hung in peril of his life.

On second thoughts he bade Waldmar go back to the house. The dog was a
clever mountaineer, too, but Findelkind did not wish to lead him into
danger. "I have done the wrong, and I will bear the brunt," he said
to himself; for he felt as if he had killed Katte's children, and the
weight of the sin was like lead on his heart, and he would not kill good
Waldmar, too.

His little lantern did not show much light, and as he went higher
upwards he lost sight of the moon. The cold was nothing to him, because
the clear still air was that in which he had been reared; and the
darkness he did not mind, because he was used to that also; but the
weight of sorrow upon him he scarcely knew how to bear, and how to
find two tiny lambs in this vast waste of silence and shadow would
have puzzled and wearied older minds than his. Garibaldi and all his
household, old soldiers tried and true, sought all night once upon
Caprera in such a quest, in vain.

If he could only have awakened his brother Stefan to ask him which way
they had gone! but then, to be sure, he remembered, Stefan must have
told that to all those who had been looking for the lambs from sunset to
nightfall. All alone he began the ascent.

Time and again, in the glad spring-time and the fresh summer weather, he
had driven his flock upwards to eat the grass that grew, in the clefts
of the rocks and on the broad green alps. The sheep could not climb to
the highest points; but the goats did, and he with them. Time and again
he had lain on his back in these uppermost heights, with the lower
clouds behind him and the black wings of the birds and the crows almost
touching his forehead, as he lay gazing up into the blue depth of the
sky, and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

He would never dream any more now, he thought to himself. His dreams had
cost Katte her lambs, and the world of the dead Findelkind was gone for
ever: gone were all the heroes and knights; gone all the faith and the
force; gone every one who cared for the dear Christ and the poor in
pain.

The bells of Zirl were ringing midnight. Findelkind heard, and wondered
that only two hours had gone by since his mother had kissed him in his
bed. It seemed to him as if long, long nights had rolled away, and he
had lived a hundred years.

He did not feel any fear of the dark calm night, lit now and then by
silvery gleams of moon and stars. The mountain was his old familiar
friend,