Such were probably the thoughts occurring to the mind of the man standing alone on the brink of the Wolkenstein chasm and gazing down at the ruin below him. The autumn morning was very cold; in the valleys and depths wreaths of gray mist were curling, long trains of clouds hovered about the mountains, and a gloomy sky looked down upon the wet, sodden earth, which bore melancholy traces of the turmoil of the previous day. Uprooted and broken trees, fragments of rock, mud, and heaps of stones were everywhere to be seen, and in many a spot the traces could be perceived of the gallant struggle of man in his fight with the elements. The roar of the cataract was not so threatening as it had been, but it still filled the air as the water dashed from the height, and the wind had not yet left the dripping storm-tossed forests in peace.
In the Wolkenstein chasm alone there was a silence as of the grave. A gigantic glacier seemed to rest in its depths, its rigid whiteness broken by a chaotic mass of rock and earth. The avalanche which had begun on the crest of the Wolkenstein must have increased fearfully on its way, for it had prostrated the entire enclosed forest, hitherto regarded as a sure protection; pines a century old had been snapped like straws and had dragged with them into the abyss a portion of the mountain-side. And then the entire mass of ice and snow, of rocks and trunks of trees, its force augmented tenfold by the velocity of its fall, had hurled itself against the bridge and crushed it. No human structure could withstand such an onslaught.
It was some consolation to know this, but Wolfgang Elmhorst seemed to find no comfort in such reflections. He gazed dully down into the icy grave where all his schemes and hopes were lying, perhaps never to rise again. In the beginning, when the railway had first been planned, there had been objections made to the Wolkenstein bridge because of the cost of its erection. It had been proposed to avoid the chasm and to carry the line of railway by another less expensive but roundabout road. Nordheim, however, who was attracted by the boldness of the scheme, contrived to overbear all opposition and to have his own way. In future there could be no thought, since economy would be especially necessary, of rebuilding the bridge, which, moreover, must be condemned as impossible, since it had fallen a prey to the elements just when it was about to astonish and delight all who beheld it, and to bring reputation and fame to its deviser.
Suddenly a large, lion-like dog came careering over the sodden ground, testifying by huge leaps to his delight at being released from his long confinement in-doors. He paused close beside Elmhorst, and began, after his custom with the engineer-in-chief, to show his teeth, when for the first time his show of dislike was arrested,--something else attracted his attention. Wise dog that he was, he perceived what had occurred. He grew restless, stretched his head far over the edge of the abyss, then looked towards the other side, finally turning his intelligent dark eyes upon the engineer-in-chief as if to ask what it all meant.
Hitherto Wolfgang had preserved his composure, at least externally, but he broke down at the dog's mute inquiry. He covered his eyes with his hand, and a tear, the first he had shed since boyhood, rolled down his cheek.
On a sudden he heard his name uttered in a voice not unfamiliar to him, but in a tone such as had never before fallen upon his ear: "Wolfgang!"
He turned, dashed aside the treacherous witness from his cheek, and, entirely self-possessed once more, approached the slender figure, enveloped in a dark wrap, and standing at a little distance, as though afraid to venture nearer.
"You here, Erna? After the terrible night that you have passed?"
"Yes, it was terrible!" the girl said, with a deep-drawn sigh. "You have heard that my uncle is dead?"
"I heard it two hours ago. I no longer had the right to watch beside his death-bed; moreover, the sight of me would only have distressed him, so I kept away. How does Alice bear it?"