The Year Nine: A Tale of the Tyrol

A Tale of the Tyrol.
The Author of Mary Powell.
Pro libertate victi, pro fama victores.
LONDON:
Printed for Arthur Hall, Virtue, & Co.
25, Paternoster Row .
1858.

THE YEAR NINE.
IT was dusk; and the mountains were reverberating with loud thunder-claps, while the rain helped to swell a turbid river that swept through the valley, and past the door of a small wirth-haus or inn, known less by its sign of The Crown, than as am Sand, by reason of the strip of sand on which it was built.
A cheerful looking, comely woman, clad in a superabundance of woollen petticoats, was busy at the stove, cooking the supper of a foot-traveller who read a crumpled newspaper at the window; while surrounding the kitchen-table, three or four peasants, who had been driven in by the rain, were hungrily supping milk-porridge from a large bowl common to them all. A pretty girl of sixteen, after adding to their meal a basket of coarse rye-cakes, spread a small table for the stranger, who, as soon as his supper was served, fell upon it with avidity. His hostess, meanwhile, retired to the end of the kitchen, where there was a great meal-bin, and began to set the bread for the morrow's baking, closely watched, all the time, by two little girls with long braids of hair hanging down their backs.
The thunder still rumbles, said a man who was quietly smoking near the stove. He was about forty years of age; his person was strong and manly, with slightly rounded shoulders; his full, dark eyes beamed with gentleness; his clustering, deep brown hair fell low on his broad forehead, and continued round his face in a beard that became coal-black towards the chin. He looked kind and enduring rather than impetuous, and not unaptly represented the image of strength in repose.