The lonely hill-side had suddenly grown animated, a scene of movement and of life. Restlessly, incessantly, the swallows darted hither and thither, sometimes high overhead at an unattainable distance, then quite low to the ground, almost touching the soil. Backwards and forwards shot the pretty slender creatures on facile wings, so swiftly that the eye could hardly follow them; and all the while the air was resonant with that low happy piping which has nothing in common with the nightingale's trill or the lark's ecstasy of song, and which yet is sweeter to man's ears than either, because it is the herald's note, proclaiming the approach of Spring, and bearing her first message to fair nature, fresh from the long winter trance. Hedwig had started from her reverie. All else was suddenly forgotten. Bending eagerly forwards, with a glad radiance in her eyes, she watched the tiny newcomers; then, with all the delight, the joyful excitement of a child, she cried: 'Oh, the swallows, the swallows!' 'Truly, they are here,' assented her companion, 'and fortunate they may consider themselves in receiving so hearty a welcome.' The cool observation fell like a chilling hoarfrost on the girl's innocent joy. She turned and measured the sober spectator at her side with an indignant glance. 'To you, Herr von Ettersberg, it appears inconceivable how one can rejoice over anything. It is not one of your failings, and I dare say the poor swallows to you signify nothing--you have never bestowed the smallest attention on them.' 'Oh, pardon me! I have always envied them for their distant journeyings, their free powers of flight, which nothing shackles or restrains. Ah, liberty! there is nothing better, no higher good in life than liberty!' 'No higher good?' The question was put in a tone of anger and indignation, making the answer seem all the colder and more decided. 'None, in my estimation, at least.' 'Really, one would think you had hitherto been languishing in chains,' said Hedwig, with unconcealed irony. 'Must one breathe dungeon-air in order to long for freedom?' asked Oswald in the same tone, only that his irony amounted to scathing sarcasm. 'The accidents of life often forge fetters which weigh more heavily than the real iron chains of a captive.' 'Then the fetters must be shaken off.' 'Quite true, they must be shaken off. Only that is much more easily said than done. They who have never been otherwise than free, hardly prize their liberty, looking upon it as a thing of course. They cannot understand how others will strive and struggle for years, will stake life itself to secure that precious guerdon. But, after all, the efforts matter little, if the end be but attained.'