he cross in the
cavern marks the spot of the Kaiser's peril. The little bleat sounded
above him, very feeble and faint.

Findelkind set his lantern down, braced himself up by drawing tighter
his old leathern girdle, set his sheepskin cap firm on his forehead, and
went toward the sound as far as he could judge that it might be. He was
out of the woods now; there were only a few straggling pines rooted here
and there in a mass of loose-lying rock and slate; so much he could tell
by the light of the lantern, and the lambs by the bleating, seemed still
above him.

It does not, perhaps, seem very hard labour to hunt about by a dusky
light upon a desolate mountainside; but when the snow is falling
fast,--when the light is only a small circle, wavering, yellowish on
the white,--when around is a wilderness of loose stones and yawning
clefts,--when the air is ice and the hour is past midnight,--the task
is not a light one for a man; and Findelkind was a child, like that
Findelkind that was in heaven.

Long, very long was his search; he grew hot and forgot all fear except a
spasm of terror lest his light should burn low and die out. The bleating
had quite ceased now, and there was not even a sigh to guide him; but he
knew that near him the lambs must be, and he did not waver or despair.

He did not pray; praying in the morning had been no use; but he trusted
in God, and he laboured hard, toiling to and fro, seeking in every nook
and behind each stone, and straining every muscle and nerve, till the
sweat rolled in a briny dew off his forehead, and his curls dripped with
wet. At last, with a scream of joy, he touched some soft close wool that
gleamed white as the white snow. He knelt down on the ground, and peered
behind the stone by the full light of his lantern; there lay the little
lambs,--two little brothers, twin brothers, huddled close together,
asleep. Asleep? He was sure they were asleep, for they were so silent
and still.

He bowed over them, and kissed them, and laughed, and cried, and kissed
them again. Then a sudden horror smote him; they were so very still.
There they lay, cuddled close, one on another, one little white head on
each little white body,--drawn closer than ever together, to try and get
warm.

He called to them, he touched them, then he caught them up in his arms,
and kissed them again, and again, and again. Alas! they were frozen and
dead. Never again would they leap in the long green grass, and fr