Marx fell into his troopers’ hands and was hung on the gallows, but only in mockery and as a warning to others; for before he and his companions perished, the men took them down, cut their oath-fingers from their hands, and drove them back into their old servitude.  When he at last returned home, his house had been taken from his family, whom he found in extreme poverty.  The father of Adam, the smith, to whom he had formerly sold charcoal, redeemed the house, gave him work, and once, when a band of horsemen came to the city searching for rebellious peasants, the old man did not forbid him to hide three whole days in his barn.

Since that time everything had been quiet in Swabia, and neither in forest, stream nor meadow had any freedom existed.

Marx had only himself to provide for; his wife was dead, and his sons were raftsmen, who took pine logs to Mayence and Cologne, sometimes even as far as Holland.  He owed gratitude to no one but Adam, and showed in his way that he was conscious of it, for he taught Ulrich all sorts of things which were of no advantage to a boy, except to give him pleasure, though even in so doing he did not forget his own profit.  Ulrich was now fifteen, and could manage a cross-bow and hit the mark like a skilful hunter, and as the lad did not lack a love for the chase, Marx afforded him the pleasure.  All he had heard about the equal rights of men he engrafted into the boy’s soul, and when to-day, for the hundredth time, Ulrich expressed a doubt whether it was not stealing to kill game that belonged to the count, the charcoal-burner straightened his mouth, and said: 

“Forest, stream and meadow are free.  Surely you know that.”

The boy gazed thoughtfully at the ground for a time, and then asked: 

“The fields too?”

“The fields?” repeated Marx, in surprise.  “The fields?  The fields are a different matter.”  He glanced as he spoke, at the field of oats he had sown in the autumn, and which now bore blades a finger long.  “The fields are man’s work and belong to him who tills them, but the forest, stream and meadow were made by God.  Do you understand?  What God created for Adam and Eve is everybody’s property.”

As the sun rose higher, and the cuckoo began to raise its voice, Ulrich’s name was shouted loudly several times in rapid succession through the forest.  The arrow he had been shaping flew into a corner, and with a hasty “When it grows dusk, Marxle!” Ulrich dashed into the woods, and soon joined his playmate Ruth.

The pair strolled slowly through the forest by the side of the stream, enjoying the glorious morning, and gathering flowers to carry a bouquet to the little girl’s mother.  Ruth culled the blossoms daintily with the tips of her fingers; Ulrich wanted to help, and tore the slender stalks in tufts from the roots by the handful.  Meantime their tongues were not idle.  Ulrich boastfully told her that Pater Benedictus had seen his picture of her father, recognized it instantly, and muttered something over it.  His mother’s blood was strong in him; his imaginary world was a very different one from that of the narrow-minded boys of the Richtberg.