"Well, Maître Bernard," cried Christian, "it is broad daylight; had we not better start?"
Then, speaking to Fuldrade, who seemed buried in thought—
"Fuldrade, this old gentleman cannot drink our kirschwasser, yet I cannot offer him water. Have you anything better?"
Fuldrade took up a milk-pail, and, with an intelligent glance at Christian, went out.
"Wait a moment," she said; "I shall be here directly."
She rapidly tripped over the wet meadow; the drops of rain, collecting in the large leaves, poured about her feet in little crystal streams. At her approach to the cave the finest cows arose up as if to greet their young mistress. She patted them all, and, having seated herself, began to milk one, a fine white cow, which, standing motionless, with eyes half-closed, seemed grateful for the preference.
When her pail was full Fuldrade made haste back, and, presenting it to Bernard, said, smiling—
"Drink as much as you like; that is the way we drink milk warm from the cow in the country."
Which was done at once, the good man thanking her many times, and praising the excellence of this frothy milk, flavoured, as it were, with the wild aromatic plants of the Schnéeberg, Fuldrade seemed pleased with his eulogiums, and Christian, who had slipped on his blouse, standing behind them, staff in hand, waited for the end of these compliments before he cried—
"Now, master, en route! We have plenty of water now to turn the mill for six weeks without stopping, and I must be back by nine o'clock."