Until now she had not met a human being, alone with her angels had she wandered through the world. But now from the distance there came a noise as of many voices; a few paces more and she was out of the forest, standing beside the broad turnpike road, on the other side of which the Moselle flowed, calm and beautiful! Like a silver ribbon the river wound itself gently between the vine-clad banks, its ripples moved softly, and the golden sun and the laughing blue sky peeped down into the crystal mirror. Margret’s face shone. There was the Moselle. Now it could not be much farther. She must soon hear the bells of Trier. And there, right in front of her, came a solemn, stately procession, with waving banners. The leader intoned a chant and sang the Ave, and the chorus joined, many-voiced, in the refrain. Margret crossed herself and stepped to one side. How many people there were! She would have liked to join them, but the women at the end of the procession did not look amiable, and a pretty young girl in a red petticoat gazed at her from head to foot so sharply that her courage failed her. She waited until they had all passed, then she followed at a little distance as the procession crept slowly along the river-bank like a long, black caterpillar. With the entire herd to point the way, the single lonely sheep can not go wrong. The sun burned hotly, the dust flew up in clouds; hadn’t she come to Trier yet? Margret was hungry, her feet hurt her. Wouldn’t it be better to put on her shoes? But no, they must be kept bright and shining for the city. So she trotted along the road that seemed endless. A cherry tree and then an apple tree, and then a cherry tree and an apple tree again, and now and then a heap of stones and a milestone--how long it was! The train of pilgrims was some distance ahead; Margret limped wearily after them. She would have liked so much to rest a while by the wayside. But then she would have lost sight of the procession, and that would not do at all. So she took a piece of bread and a bit of cheese from her bundle, and bit into it with her strong, white teeth as she walked along. The sun sank toward the skyline, the evening wove its delicate veil over the river and the valley. High above, the summits of the mountains still shone in golden light, and tiny little cushiony clouds grew rosy pink at their edges. Margret’s clear eyes grew tired, her foot rose and fell more slowly. Oh, how nice it would be to rest now, like the little birds that were just slipping into their nests! There, listen! A deep rich tone hummed through the air, and now another, and another, and the wind brought other voices to her, finer and thinner, that wove a lighter figure about the single great voice. It was the bells of Trier.