“Oh, good sir,” Margret courtesied, and took his hand confidently, “I thank you many thousand times. If I knew where you live I would bring you pine cones to help make the fire, and berries, and I will spin for your dear lady for nothing.” “I thank you, my dear child”--the gentleman drew down the corners of his mouth--“but that’s a little too far off. You might give me a kiss, though, don’t you think, or perhaps two.” “And me, too,” laughed the other. “We are good friends, and we’ll divide even.” The frightened girl looked from one to the other. She drew her skirts together with her left hand and held her right arm out in front of her as if for protection. “No, oh, no!” “Oh, yes, don’t be so foolish, little one.” The gentleman’s face was not nearly so friendly now. He put out his arm and caught the girl in spite of her struggles. She tore herself loose with a scream, and sprang back from him. There was a noise behind them in the bushes. A tall man stepped out between Margret and her pursuers. “Let that girl alone”--the stranger twirled a heavy stick in the air--“or I’ll show you something, you--” The two men turned, murmuring something about a “clown of a peasant” and disappeared. Margret stood as if rooted to the ground, trembling in her fright. The youth reached for her hand. “Come with me,” he said. She followed obediently along the road which she had come the day before. They walked along for a little while side by side without saying a word. The girl’s eyes rested now and then shyly on the figure of the young man. How slender and strong he was! How prettily his hair curled, and how daring his little mustache! A deep blush grew up over Margret’s cheeks; she drew her hand slowly out of the fingers that held her so gently and stepped over to the other side of the street. Then they walked on on either side of the road; a look would now and then pass from one to the other, shy and timid. The sky was overcast, the burning sun covered with clouds. The wind had freshened, and was rustling the tree-tops along the wayside, throwing down showers of leaves and ripe fruit. The city was hidden behind a veil of whirling dust; soft thunder grumbled in the distance, the birds fluttered anxiously and sought noisily for a shelter. Gray caps of fog drew over the tops of the mountains, and there was a smell of cool rain in the air. “There’s bad weather coming,” said the youth finally, gazing up searchingly at the sky. “Yes,” answered Margret. And just then the first drops fell, heavy and impudent. “Where did you come from?” asked the boy. “From the Eifel, up there by Kyllburg.” “Kyllburg’s where I live; that’s fine, we can go on together.” “Oh, yes,” said Margret, and breathed a sigh of relief. She felt quite safe and contented beside her stately companion. No one could hurt her now, and she need not be afraid of the night in the forest. “I am Valentin Rohles. My father is dead; I live with my mother, but she’s so old now.”