"Well, bind me, then, child, and lead me back to my owlet's hole. You spoke of a sword, my daughter, and I thought the time had come. It is long, long--it is now nine long winters. There is not much life left in me; but die I cannot, before it comes to pass: that knowest thou well." "Unhappy father!" sighed the tall female form. She knelt; and, with her own wasted fingers, took up the crooked and trembling hands of the old man, which she kissed through her veil, and then bound loosely, behind his back, with a silk riband. "Now that thou art again bound, my father," she continued, rising, "let me lead thee back to thy corner of hope. Refuse not, father. The day of retribution is certain, and not far distant." Quietly and silently the trembling old man followed her to his nook, where he sank, as if in a slumber. The little Margarethé now returned with two servants, who remained standing by the door. "Hold back! I require you not!" said the lady, giving them a signal to go. The servants bowed respectfully, and retired in silence. "The dear Holy Virgin be praised! grandfather again sleeps calmly," said little Margarethé, sitting quietly down to her work. The mother and daughter remained a long time in silence, and all was as still as death around them, until they heard the noise of horses in the courtyard. "Listen! more strangers have come," said Margarethé: "there are still many of father's good friends to defend us." She went to the window. "It is father himself, and a strange gentleman," she exclaimed, hastily: "he dismounts on the great stone by the stairs. God be praised, he is come! I was almost afraid of so many strangers." The unhappy house-mother heard this account, with emotions that betrayed a momentary gladness. She arose, but, without saying a word, again seated herself, with a deep sigh.