Gotthold collected his luggage; then it occurred to him that he might just as well leave his colors there. So he placed the box on the rock where the serpent had lain, in the dense shadow, and went down the hill, along the woodland path, to the long ravine through which the stream rippled to the sea, and at whose mouth, in the little inlet between two steep overhanging cliffs, stood Cousin Boslaf's lonely little house. In the old days at Dollan it had gone by the name of the beach-house, nor was the title used only there; the name was in all mouths, especially those of the ship-masters, to whom it was a welcome landmark on that dangerous coast even by day, and still more at night, when the warning light in Cousin Boslaf's window streamed through the yawning night over the dreary waste of waters to the helpless mariner. The brilliant glow extended a long distance, thanks to the huge arched tin dish which the old man had fastened behind the lamp, and whose spotless brightness rivalled polished silver. This light had now burned seventy years, to the joy of shipmasters and fishermen and the honor of the worthy man who kindled it night after night at no one's bidding, but in simple obedience to the dictates of his own kind heart. Seventy years, and probably more rather than less; no one had counted them. Ever since the oldest man in that neighborhood could remember, Cousin Boslaf had lived in the beach-house--was it strange that he should be a half-mythical personage to the younger generations? He almost seemed so to his own relatives in Dollan, among whom he lived; in whose society, at least, he spent many hours; whose joys and sorrows he shared in his quiet way, and to whom his history was known; at least Curt's father had known and related it, Gotthold could not remember the occasion, and whether he had told the boys or--what was more probable--communicated it to some friends over a bottle of wine, and the boys had secretly listened in some corner. It was long since Gotthold had thought of this story, which reminded him of a time when many a beech-tree that now reared its stately head far above the wanderer f did not exist. But now it once more came back to his memory, down to the smallest details, which he really knew not whether he had heard at that time, imagined since, or now first learned from the rustling of the forest giants, and the murmur of the brook that accompanied his steps.