It was not unusual with him, while he was thus gazing, for sleep to come over him—a calm, delicious slumber—from which he awoke far more refreshed and rested than from his night’s repose. Perhaps she was present in his dreams, and all her playful gestures and her merry tones were with him while he slept. Perhaps—it is not impossible—that his mind, soothed by the calming influence of, such slumber, recovered in part its lost power, and not being called on for the exercise of volition, could employ some of its perceptive faculties.
Be this as it may, this sleep was deep, and calm, and tranquillising. One day, when he had watched longer than usual, and when her childish sport had more than ever delighted him, he dropped oft* almost suddenly into slumber. Motionless as death itself he lay upon the bank,—a faint smile upon his parted lips, his chest scarcely seeming to heave, so soft and quiet was his slumber. The river rippled pleasantly beside him, the air was balmy as in the early spring, and fanned his hot temples with a delicious breath, the child’s song floated merrily out—the innocent accents of infant glee—and Fritz seemed to drink these pleasures in as he slept.
What visions of heavenly shape—what sounds of angelic sweetness—may have flitted before that poor distracted brain, as with clasped hands and muttering lips he seemed to pray a prayer of thankfulness,—the outpouring gratitude of a pent-up nature finding vent at last! Suddenly he awoke with a start—terror in every feature—his eyes starting from their sockets: he reeled as he sprang to his feet, and almost fell. The river seemed a cataract—the mountains leaned over as though they were about to fall and crush him—the ground beneath his feet trembled and shook with an earthquake movement—a terrible cry rang through his ears. What could it mean? There!—there again he heard it! Oh, what a pang of heart-rending anguish was that! “Hülf! hülf! hülf!” were the words. The infant was struggling in the current—her little hand grasped the weeds, while at every instant they gave way—the water foamed and eddied round her—deeper and deeper she sank: her hair now floated in the stream, and her hands, uplifted, besought, for the last time, aid. “Hülf uns! Maria! hülf uns!” She sank. With a cry of wildest accent, Fritz sprang into the stream, and seized the yellow hair as it was disappearing beneath the flood: the struggle was severe, for the strong stream inclined towards the middle of the river, and Fritz could not swim. Twice had the waves closed over him, and twice he emerged with his little burden pressed to his heart; were it not for aid, however, his efforts would have been vain. The cry for help had brought many to the spot, and he was rescued—saved from death: saved from that worse than death—the terrible union of life and death.
He lay upon the bank, wearied and exhausted—but oh, how happy! How doubly bright the sky!—how inexpressibly soft and soothing the air upon his brow!—how sweet the human voice, that not only sounded to the ear but echoed in the heart!
In all his bright dreams of life he had fancied nothing like the bliss of that moment. Friends were on every side of him—kind friends, who never in a life-long could tell all their gratitude; and now, with words of affection, and looks of mildest, fondest meaning, they bent over that poor boy, and called him their own preserver.
Amid all these sights and sounds of gladness—so full of hope and joy—there came one shrill cry, which, piercing the air, seemed to penetrate to the very inmost chamber of Fritz’s heart, telling at once the whole history of his life, and revealing the secret of his suffering and his victory. It was Star himself; who, in a cage beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut-tree, was glad to mingle his wild notes with the concourse of voices about him, and still continued at intervals to scream out, “Maria, hülf! hülf uns, Maria!”
“Yes, child,” said a venerable old man, as he kissed Fritz’s forehead, “you see the fruits of your obedience and your trust. I am glad you have not forgotten my teaching,—‘A good word brings luck.’”
Every story-teller should respect those who like to hear a tale to its very end. The only way he can evince his gratitude for their patience is by gratifying all their curiosity. It remains for me, then, to say, that Fritz returned to the little village where he had lived with Star for his companion; not poor and friendless as before, but rich in wealth, and richer in what is far better—the grateful love and affection of kind friends. His life henceforth was one of calm and tranquil happiness. By his aid the old Bauer was enabled to purchase his little farm rent-free, and buy besides several cows and some sheep. And then, when he grew up to be a man, Fritz married Grett’la, and they became very well off, and lived in mutual love and contentment all their lives.
Fritz’s house was not only the handsomest in the Dorf, but it was ornamented with a little picture of the Virgin, with Star sitting upon her wrist, and the words of the golden letters were inscribed beneath,—
“Maria, Mutter Gottes, hülf uns!”