“Yes,” sighed the brother; “it is a cruel shame.”

Swiftly they carried her to the house, and laid her on her mother’s bed, then returned to their dreadful task in Wilhelm’s chamber.

Hung by a stout leathern strap from the roof-tree beam, there swung the dead body of Wilhelm Ruetter, cold, stiff.  He had been dead for hours; he must have done the deed soon after bidding them good-night.

“He vas mad, Johan; it must be he vas mad ven he laugh like dat last night.  Dat vas de beginning, Johan,” said the old man, shaking from head to foot with horror, as he helped his son lift down the body.

“Yes!” answered John; “that must be it.  I expect he has been mad all along.  I do not believe last night was the beginning.  It was not like any sane man to be so gloomy as he was, and never speak to a living soul.  But I never once thought of his being crazy.  Look, father!” he continued, his voice breaking into a sob, “he has left these flowers here for Carlen!  That does not look as if he was crazy!  What can it all mean?”

On the top of a small chest lay the bunch of white Ladies’-Tress, with a paper beneath it on which was written, “For Carlen Weitbreck,—­these, and the carvings in the box, all in memory of Wilhelm.”

“He meant to do it, den,” said the old man.

“Yes,” said John.

“Maybe Carlen vould not haf him, you tink?”

“No,” said John, hastily; “that is not possible.”

“I tought she luf him, an’ he vould stay an’ be her mann,” sighed the disappointed father.  “Now all dat is no more.”

“It will kill her,” cried John.

“No!” said the father.  “Vimmins does not die so as dat.  She feel pad maybe von year, maybe two.  Dat is all.  He vas great for vork.  Dat Alf vas not goot as he.”

The body was laid once more on the narrow pallet where it had slept for its last few weeks on earth, and the two men stood by its side, discussing what should next be done, how the necessary steps could be taken with least possible publicity, when suddenly they heard the sound of horses’ feet and wheels, and looking out they saw Hans Dietman and his wife driving rapidly into the yard.

“Mein Gott!  Vat bring dem here dis time in day,” exclaimed Farmer Weitbreck.  “If dey ask for Wilhelm dey must all know!”

“Yes,” replied John; “that makes no difference.  Everybody will have to know.”  And he ran swiftly down to meet the strangely arrived neighbors.

His first glance at their faces showed him that they had come on no common errand.  They were pale and full of excitement, and Hans’s first word was:  “Vere is dot man you sent to mine place yesterday?”

“Wilhelm?” stammered Farmer Weitbreck.

“Wilhelm!” repeated Hans, scornfully.  “His name is not ‘Wilhelm.’  His name is Carl,—­Carl Lepmann; and he is murderer.  He killed von man—­shepherd, in our town—­last spring; and dey never get trail of him.  So soon he came in our kitchen yesterday my vife she knew him; she wait till I get home.  Ve came ven it vas yet dark to let you know vot man vas in your house.”