"Most certainly not," Benno assured him, pressing the offered hand cordially. "And now let me hear how it happens that you have returned to Europe."
CHAPTER XII.
[THE BALE-FIRE.]
The last crimson reflection of sunset had long vanished, field and forest were covered with dew, and the darkness was softly creeping up from the valleys to the heights, while above the snow-peaks began to gleam with a silvery lustre,--the herald of the rising moon, which was not yet visible.
Then flames began to dart forth from the heaped-up wood on the Wolkenstein; at first only fitfully, crackling and smoking, until the fire caught the giant logs, and then it leapt aloft wildly with a magnificent ruddy glare, hailed by cheers from the circle of men around it,--the ancient bale-fire of the mountains.
It was wonderfully picturesque,--the scene to which the growing darkness added much in effect,--the flaming altar sending its sparks towards heaven, and around it in the red light the crowd of brown-visaged mountaineers in joyous motion. They chased and chaffed one another, and leaped around the fire, snatching and waving aloft the burning brands in unrestrained delight, to which the crackling and roaring of the flames added intensity, while above it all the smoke rolled and floated in thick clouds, now half veiling and anon revealing the scene below.
Erna and Waltenberg had not left their place,--probably preferring to keep somewhat aloof from the noisy crowd. At a little distance stood Wolfgang with folded arms, apparently lost in contemplation of the fantastic spectacle. Probably by chance, he had taken up a position where he was almost entirely in the shadow; all the more brilliant did the light seem which was thrown upon the little group on the hillock, the slender, graceful figure of the girl, the tall, dark form beside her, and the shaggy dog lying motionless at their feet, his head resting upon his huge paws.
Benno, standing near the fire with Gronau, now and then glanced towards them, but that other pair of eyes watched them intently from the gloom, and if sometimes their owner resolutely looked away towards the busy, happy throng, some mysterious force seemed to compel his gaze to rest again upon the pair, who looked as if they already belonged to each other.
Erna, who had grown warm from climbing, had taken off her hat and laid it upon the mossy stone that served her for a seat, while Waltenberg leaned above her, conversing in a low tone. What he said had, perhaps, no special significance, but his look sought hers with a passionate eagerness which he took no pains to conceal. His eyes could well express the emotion which thrilled his whole being. The man whose thirst for freedom had so long defied the fetters of love was now hopelessly enthralled.
The conversation was carried on in an undertone, but Wolfgang distinguished every word; through all the shouting and laughter, through all the crackling and hissing of the flames, every syllable distinctly fell on his ear, for every nerve was strung in the effort to listen, as if for him life and death depended upon what was said.