In the fields men work busily; every year they cut the grass and grain. The forest trees grow many years, but at last the axe fells or the storm uproots them. Only the earth, in which men are buried, remains. Down in the rapids, not far from the Devil's-kettle, lies an uprooted pine. No one can pull it out. In the summer-time the ground caves in; in winter the ice is too slippery. So this tree had stood many, many years by the whirlpool, and had forced its roots into the rocky bed. The water sprinkled upon it from the falls had nourished it so richly; and now it is done with decaying----. "What a pity for the fine, valuable tree!" was really Landolin's last thought. The black horse neighed loudly, then looked back at his master, who held the reins so loose. Landolin straightened himself in the saddle and tightened his hold on the bridle. See, there comes Cushion-Kate, with a bundle of dry twigs. Landolin nodded approvingly at his own resolution. "Wait; I'm coming," he cried to Cushion-Kate. She stopped and threw down the bundle of wood. Landolin sprang from his horse, and holding it by the bridle, he said: "Kate, my wife is dead." "I suppose so; they buried her." "I want to talk kindly to you. Who knows how long either you or I shall live?" And in deep contrition he went on, in a low tone: "You have lost your son, and I am almost persecuted to death by my son. I suffer----" A devilish laugh interrupted him. The dog snuffed around the old woman. Landolin called him away, and continued: "I would like to do something for you." "Then hang yourself!" cried Cushion-Kate. Hastening to her bundle of twigs, she unfastened the string. "There, there you have it! Hang yourself on the tree there. That's the only thing you can do for me. I want to see you hanging." Landolin mounted his horse again, and rode away. He did not look around. He did not see how Cushion-Kate, with the cord in her hand, hastened after him through the forest. Landolin reached the valley. The stream has risen above its bed, but there is the bridge, and just across is Anton's saw-mill. The horse stepped gayly into the water that scarcely reached its knee. The dog waded by its side, and often looked up at his master, as though begging him to turn back. But Landolin rode on and on, and did not look around when it splashed so strangely behind him. He reached the bridge over which the water was already rushing. Just then something like a noose wound itself about his neck. He looked round. Cushion-Kate was clinging beside him to the horse. A struggle, a wrench, splash! and Cushion-Kate's red kerchief appeared for a moment; then nothing more was to be seen. Only the dog swam through the roaring waters, down to the mill, and there sprang on land. CHAPTER LXX.