But now I must tell of this strange woman whom I in my hasty judgment had ever thought was of the Evil One.
One day, a few months after the return of Sonnlein and Genoveva, we were thrown into the greatest alarm by the sudden appearance of a red man among us one bright spring morning. As he came across the meadow from down the Cocalico, seeing he was alone I stepped out with Sonnlein from the timid group of Brothers and Sisters to meet the intruder; but on seeing me he lost all his pride as he said meekly, "Woman chief dying up hill, want white rose and sick brother," pointing to Sonnlein, "come see her," and then he looked at me carefully and said, "Big brother come too."
Though our leader and many of the Brothers and Sisters sought to dissuade us from going with the red man, dreading it meant nothing but a scheme for taking us into captivity, Sonnlein and I, and even Genoveva, were resolved to go with the savage, for we somehow felt he told the truth.
Once again we went that long toilsome way to that far-off mountain hut, and by noon we all were standing within the rude dwelling where lay the witch dying, as we could clearly see.
At first she seemed so near the dark shore she saw us not, and then as though she noted neither the red man nor me nor Genoveva, the dying woman gazed lovingly at Sonnlein, and murmured, "David, my David, thou hast been away so long"; and then as Sonnlein, obeying some gracious impulse, knelt down beside her she folded her feeble arms about him, holding him as though she never would let him go. Outside the birds were flitting from tree to tree, chirping merrily, as though death and sorrow never came to them; but else all was so quiet we could hear naught but the heavy breathing of this poor woman. Great tears stood in our eyes, even the red man bowing his head sadly for her whom his tribe held in such high regard.
But with all the solemnity of a soul's leaving its mortal home, my mind was fixed upon the mystery of the life of her who had always seemed to me so hideous, but who now in the refining hour of death had lost her forbidding aspect, so that I could believe that before suffering and hate had poisoned her whole being she had been a comely woman.
With such thoughts in my mind we watched over her, Sister Genoveva, with her woman's finer sensibilities, doing all she could to make the end more easy; but mine enemy—now mine enemy no more—still seemed to see only Sonnlein, caring for naught else.
Later in the afternoon she passed quietly away like a slowly expiring lamp; but just a few moments before her soul's flight, the dark veil that hung between her and the long ago was lifted slightly as we heard her murmur to Sonnlein: "Charles, where is Charles?" and then she seemed to wait for some one's coming, but soon forgot her wish, and lay quietly, her arms slipping from Sonnlein's neck, and we knew her stormy life was over, and though we had strict views as to who could enter into the joys of the blessed, yet a fervent prayer went up from my heart that He who pitieth us as a father pitieth his children, would take her to him as one of his own.
As Sonnlein arose and looked long and earnestly at the poor handful of dust lying at his feet, I could see that he too was turning over in his mind the mystery of this old woman; but he said nothing, and then Genoveva bent down and brushed back the tangled gray hair and folded the hands over the now quiet breast and straightened out the already stiffening form.
But the long May day was drawing to its close, and it came to us that ere we left we must make proper and respectful burial of the dead. With the suddenness of a flash of light an overpowering thought came to me that we should lay her alongside our Brother Alburtus. When I suggested this to Sonnlein and Genoveva, both, with all their sorrow, rejoiced I had thought of this, and even the Indian, when our plan was explained to him, grunted his approval by saying, "Big brother, good man."