“Sleeps also in the hay-loft.” “And the boys?” “In the hay-loft.” “And the ladies?” “In the hay-loft?” “Nonsense, Zedwitz—you are joking.” “I am perfectly serious; there is but one bed in the house, and it is so little inviting that no one has courage to make use of it. We are all to sleep together in the hay-loft. I rather enjoy the idea. Shall we go?” “By all means.” “This,” thought Hamilton, as they descended the hill together, “is something quite out of the common course of things. I wonder what sort of a loft it is?” The only light in the house proceeded from the kitchen fire, which still burned on the high, open hearth; beside it were seated one of the guides and a peasant girl, who had come from one of the houses in the valley, and so wrapt up were they in the evidently confidential discourse, that they were unconscious of the presence of strangers until Zedwitz laughingly asked the way to the hay-loft. “This way, if you please,” said the man, looking a little embarrassed. “Take care you don’t stumble, it is so dark.” He was followed closely by Hamilton, and they both quietly and cautiously mounted the somewhat rickety ladder which led to the loft, and entered it by a trap-door. It was very full of hay, and by the light which was sparingly admitted through the solitary gable-window, they could see several figures stretched in different positions around them; but they could not tell whether or not they were sleepers. Major Stultz was alone communicative on that point—he lay with his mouth wide open, and was snoring profoundly. “I suppose, Hamilton, we ought to take the places near the entrance?” whispered Zedwitz. “I cannot bear a draught,” replied the other, moving towards the end of the loft, where Madame Rosenberg and the children were lying. At his approach, two figures began slowly to roll away from him; a stifled laugh and an angry hush betrayed at once the sisters; and no sooner had he and Zedwitz chosen their places, than they perceived a partition-wall of hay was being built in their neighbourhood. Soon convinced that Madame Rosenberg and the children slept, Hamilton felt greatly inclined to commence a conversation with the two girls; but which of them should he address? From Hildegarde he had little hope of an answer—from Crescenz he felt that he deserved none. It was in vain he urged Zedwitz to begin, telling him that he could not sleep; that the hay was too hot, and the loft too cold and too uncomfortable; that he could not remain quiet, etc., etc., etc.; his companion moved away from him, saying, in a low voice, that he knew Hildegarde would not speak, and that he had nothing to say to her sister. In a few minutes he, too, was fast asleep, leaving Hamilton to compose himself as he best could. After having tried all possible positions, he at length resigned himself to his fate, and determined not to move again. After half an hour’s silence, Hildegarde and her sister began to whisper to each other.