“Do you believe that?”

“Do I believe it!  It is as sure, Master Bernard, as that the sun will be back in three hours’ time.  Death is night, life is day.  After night comes day, then night again, and so on without end.  The sun is the soul of the sky, the great spirit that is in us all, and the souls of the saints are like the stars which shine in the night, and which will never cease to return.”

Bernard Hertzog replied not another word, but having risen, he began suspiciously to consider the aspect of that aged woman, who sat still in a niche carved out of the rock.  He noticed above the niche some rough carving on the stone representing three trees with their branches touching, and forming a sort of crown; lower down were three toads cut in the granite.  Three trees are the arms of the Tribocci (dreien buechen), three toads are the arms of the Merovingian kings.

What was the surprise of the old chronicler!  Covetousness now took the place of alarm.

“Here,” thought he, “is the oldest monument of the Frankish race in Gaul.  That old woman reminds me of some fallen queen, left here a relic of ages long gone by.  But how am I to carry the niche away?”

He began to consider.

Then was heard far away in the woods the trampling of the hoofs of many cattle and deep bellowing.  The rain fell faster; the flashes of lightning, like flights of frightened birds in the dark, touched each other by the tips of their wings; one never waited for another to be gone, and the rolling of the thunder became incessant and terrible.

Soon the storm reached the very gorge of Nideck and hung over it closely, and swooped down with implacable fury; the explosions succeeded each other without intermission.  It seemed as if the very mountains were falling.

At every fresh crash Uncle Bernard shrank, feeling as if the lightning were coming down his back.

“The first Triboceus who built a hut to cover his head was no fool,” thought he.  “He was a sensible man, with some experience of atmospheric changes.  What would have become of us in this emergency had we not a roof over our heads?  We should be greatly to be pitied.  The invention of that Triboccus was quite as useful as that of the steam-engine; what a pity his name is not known!”

The worthy man had scarcely concluded his reflections when a young maiden of sixteen, wearing a very wide-brimmed straw hat, her white skirts dripping with rain and her little bare feet covered with sand, advanced to the doorstep, and said—­

“The Lord bless you!”

“Amen,” answered Christian solemnly.

This young girl was of the purest Scandinavian type, with cheeks of rose pink upon a face of pure whiteness, and long waving tresses, so fair and so silky that the finest wheat straw would hardly bear comparison with it.  Her figure was tall and slender, and her blue eyes beamed with inexpressible sweetness.