It was a chilly morning when, foreboding naught of harm, I crossed the river in my skiff, and sought the Scudder farm: About the hour when Ruth would have her household work all through, And ready be to take a walk, the scene around to view. The trees were leafless, and the ground was covered half with snow; But what is that to human hearts with youth and love aglow! We wandered up and down the road like children, hand in hand, And talked about the future, and the life before us planned; But while we spake the sound of hoofs upon the ground we heard— Somehow my spirit to its depth by that same sound was stirred; And closer Ruth towards me drew that slender form of hers, As came the clanking of a sword whose scabbard clinked with spurs. We turned. A horseman was at hand, in gay apparel clad, Upon his dark-green coat much braid and golden lace he had; A man of goodly presence. He gazed curiously at each, Then spake (thee knows we understand round here the German speech): “Ah! Sie ist deine Schwester, Mann?”—at which I shook my head. “So! deine Frau vielleicht? ’ne Braut! Sehr gut! Ein Schmatz!” he said. “There, that will do, friend officer,” in wrath was my reply; “I feel not free, when thus thee speaks, to stand in silence by. Pray go thy ways; we’re peaceful folk, nor meddle thee nor thine.” “Dat’s zafe,” he said, “in dimes like dese; gleichwohl der Kuss ist mein!” With that he bent to where she stood; but ere her lips he found, I dragged him headlong from his horse, and hurled him to the ground. He rose, and straightway drew his sword, and angrily he glared; I thought my hour of death had come when he his weapon bared. The veins upon his forehead swelled, and then his face grew white; With rage that gave him double strength he raised the blade to smite. And as it rose I heard a scream; Ruth rushed between us twain; Fell terribly the keen-edged steel: my pretty dove was slain. He shrank in horror; from his face all trace of color fled, While I sank down upon my knees beside the pulseless dead; And loud I cried, “A deed is thine which even fiends abhor! Her soul shall rise and thine shall sink, thou bloody wolf of war!” “Ach Gott!” he said, and spake no more; then, mounting on his steed, Struck deep the rowels in its flanks, and rode in headlong speed. Ruth did not on the instant die, and, ere she breathed her last, Soft cradled in my loving arms, her life-blood flowing fast, There went a shudder through her frame, a glazing of the eye, And then a lighting of her face, a glance at earth and sky. So tenderly she murmured, with a loving look to me, “Reuben! ’tis hard in youth to die, but sweet to die for thee?”