"They have grown in the valley--in the valley where every one has passed along, many sorts of people, and the wind, and also anguish--we have chosen our own friends. "We will drink beer to the health of those who please us. We will have no words on our lips--but we will have words in our hearts--where no one can efface them." The heavy, solid heads, young and old, remained motionless for a moment when Juliette had finished. They waited for the remainder. The young girls smiled because of the voice and because of life. The eyes of M. Bastian and the Ramspachers shone because of bygone days. The two sons had grown grave. Juliette did not begin to sing again: there was no more to follow. "I think I know the miller who composed that song," said M. Bastian. "Come, my friends, hurry yourselves; there is the first cart starting for Alsheim. All must be gathered and put in the drying-house before night." Everybody except that big young François, who had to do his military service in November, and who was driving the wagon, bent again over the hop roots. But at the same moment, from the copse on the border of the great forest, from among the shrubs and the clematis, which made a silky fringe to the mountain forests, a man's voice answered. What was happening? Who had heard them? They thought they knew the voice, which was strong and unequal, worn, but with touches of a youthful quality; and whisperings arose. "It is he. He is not afraid!" The voice answered, in the same rugged tongue: "The black bow of the daughters of Alsace--has bound my heart with sorrow--has bound my heart with joy. It is a knot of love. "The black bow of the daughters of Alsace--is a bird with great wings. It can fly across the mountains--and look over them. "The black bow of the daughters of Alsace is a cross of mourning which we carry in memory of all those--whose soul was like our own soul." The voice had been recognised. When it had finished singing, the hop-pickers, men and women, began to talk to M. Ulrich, who, barely tolerated in Alsace, had nevertheless more freedom of language than the Alsatians who were German subjects. The noise of laughter and words exchanged grew louder and louder in the hop-field, so the master withdrew. M. Bastian, with his heavy, sure step, mounted to the edge of the forest whence came the voice, and plunged under the beeches. Some one had seen him coming and waited for him. M. Ulrich Biehler, seated on a rock starred with moss--bare headed, weary with having walked in the sun--had hoped, by singing, to make his old friend Xavier Bastian climb up to him. He was not mistaken. "I have a place for you here, hop-picker!" he cried from afar, pointing to a large block of stone which had rolled to the foot of the mountain, between two trees, and on which he was seated.