“Nay, nay, son,” his mother answered, “Johanna has eyes but for thee; trust my word for it. See, the storm is passing; do thou go over and bid her good-evening, and tell her that the old mother needs some more of that yarn she can spin so stoutly, and thinks she might even bring it over herself, and gladden this house with a sight of her face. There is a gloom hangs about it when she is away, and the sooner she lives with us for good, the better it will be.”
Dietrich took his cap from the peg and opened the door, but as he stood on the threshold, he turned to his mother once more.
“What if I should bring her to harm too?” he said, and was gone.
The old woman mused on by the hearth; her thoughts were not cheerful, for in her secret heart she firmly believed that some water-sprite had indeed bewitched her unlucky boy, but she put a bold face on it, and stuck to the idea that his marriage with Johanna would be the saving of him. Her thoughts would have been sadder still could she have seen how Dietrich swerved from the path that led to Johanna’s cottage, and, almost as though unaware of what he did, wandered down toward the banks of the river. Here, where it joined the lake, the swirling torrent became calmer, and patches of sedge and water-willow grew far out into the stream. It was now growing dusk, and the wind had dropped. As Dietrich paused, standing in the long, dank grass, he heard a sound, scarcely more than a whisper, borne to him on the dying breeze: “Dietrich!” and in a moment again, a little louder: “Dietrich!” A dread, irresistible fascination drew him nearer to the rush-grown banks, and as he went, he heard again and again that voice, calling his name with sweet insistence. And now, far down, almost hidden amid the tangle of willow-boughs and waving blue forget-me-nots that swept the surface of the dark lake, a face appeared—a lovely face, with a bloom as delicate as a rose-leaf or the heart of a shell, and all around it long tresses of red-gold hair floated upon the water.
“Dietrich,” the sweet voice continued, “I have called thee unto seven times. Hast thou not heard? Wilt thou not come and save me?”
Dietrich sprang forward, parting the overhanging boughs, and trying to get a clearer sight of the vision. “How shall I save thee?” he cried, almost in spite of himself, while fear and longing struggled together at his heart, “and who art thou?”
But lo! the face was gone; only a rustling was heard in the bushes, and presently a water-snake reared its head among the reeds, and shooting out its forked tongue, glided towards him. As it came nearer, the same voice sounded again upon the silent air. “Save me by a kiss,” it said. But fear now gained the mastery, and with a cry of horror, Dietrich turned and fled; yet, as his hurrying feet bore him from the water’s edge, the voice pursued him still.
“So mightest thou have broken the spell and saved me,” it wailed, “but thou art afraid! Oh, wretched man, who hast seen my face and fled! And oh, miserable me! for now none may save me, till the oak-tree be sprung from the acorn, and the cradle carved from the oak!”
Almost beside himself, Dietrich reached the top of the river-bank, and hurried through the wood to his cottage, where his mother found him late that night—when she came anxiously out to watch for his coming—lying senseless on the steps of the little porch.