Their speech was German, the soft and beautiful German of the south. Sometimes they spoke in whispers and with fearful glances of the past and its terrors, and of the cruel French. Sometimes the older girls whispered together of romantic dreams which could never come true, of true lovers and a happy home for each. But most of all they talked—amazing to relate—these little Germans of two hundred years ago—of Indians!
About Indians it was Conrad who had the most to say. Conrad was the oldest boy; though so much younger than Margareta and Magdalena, he could read easily while they could not read at all. While Conrad talked, their thoughts traveled out of their poor valley, down the great river, through strange cities to a mighty ship upon which they should sail and sail until they reached a Paradise. Sometimes Conrad walked up and down before them, his hands clasped behind his back, sometimes he lay on the ground with his hands under his head. He talked and talked and let himself be questioned in the lordly manner which lads assume with their sisters. He carried with him always, buttoned inside his thin clothes, a little book which he knew by heart.
"Is it cold there?" asked Sabina wistfully. Sabina was the last to recover from the fearful winter.
Conrad leafed his little book.
"I will read. 'The climate is everywhere subtle and penetrating. During the winter'—here, Sabina,—'during the winter the sun has great strength.'"
"I do not know what 'subtle and penetrating' mean. Those great words are beyond me."
"They mean that the climate is good," explained Conrad, who did not know exactly either.
"Will we be hungry?" asked Sabina, still more wistfully.
Conrad could hardly turn the leaves fast enough. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks glowed.