"A great and deep work ... drawn with a vivid power of imagination which is a revelation to the cooler Anglo-Saxon reader."--_N. Y. Evening Mail_. _LEISURE HOUR SERIES_ * * * * * What The Swallow Sang A NOVEL BY FRIEDRICH SPIELHAGEN TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MS. TRANSLATOR OF "_By His Own Might_," "_A Twofold Life_," _etc_. NEW YORK HOLT & WILLIAMS 1873 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by HENRY HOLT, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Poole & Maclauchlan, Printers, 205-213 _East 12th St_., NEW YORK. What The Swallow Sang. CHAPTER I. "I won't give you any farther trouble, I can find what I want myself." The sexton's wife looked at the gentleman in some little surprise, and then glanced at the bunch of huge keys which hung in the door she had just opened for the stranger. "That's right; you need not be uneasy, I shall not stay long, and here is something for your trouble." He pressed a piece of money into her hand, and turned towards the door. "The Herr Pastor has strictly forbidden it," said the woman. "He will have no objection," replied the stranger. "I will leave a few words for him." He took his note-book and wrote a few lines. When he tore out the leaf he perceived on the other side a little sketch which he had dashed off that afternoon with a few hasty strokes, while his carriage stopped before a village inn. A smile flitted over his grave features. "That won't do," he murmured. "And here again, everything is filled with scrawls. Well," he added aloud, as he thrust the note-book back into his pocket, "I will write from P----. Please tell him so; farewell, my good woman." The sexton's wife did not venture to make any reply, and turned away. The stranger looked after her retreating figure a few minutes. "Strange," he murmured, "it seems as if it would be committing a sacrilege to utter my name aloud in this place! It was really a relief to my mind that the woman did not know me. How we are all under the ban of gloomy feelings which we should be ashamed to confess to others! To be sure it is not strange that these emotions should almost overpower me here; here, in this spot which should be my home, where my cradle stood, and yet where I was not allowed to return until the grave had closed over him to whom I owe my life."