"On stormy days, even to this present day, when the waters of the lake are lashing themselves in fury, the shepherd of the hard heart can be seen passing across the waves, his whip raised to strike some unseen object, a black hunting dog behind him. How long his punishment may last, no one knows, but he can always be seen just as he was when the earthquake swallowed him up."
"Isn't it strange," observed Teresa, "but every one of the tales end in the punishment of the wicked knight."
"Of course," remarked Ferdinand. "They wouldn't be tales at all if the wrong-doer was allowed to go free. Would they, father?"
"Indeed not; but now it's time for breakfast. Would you like to eat on deck? It is so perfect a day, it is a pity to go indoors."
This suggestion appealed wonderfully to the children, and Herr Müller left them to order the meal served upon the deck.
As night fell, the boat docked at Linz. Herr Runkel was waiting on the quay with a heavy wagon and a team of horses to drive them to the farm. It was a beautiful drive in the bright moonlight, and the lights of Linz twinkled below them, while the Danube sparkled in the distance, just like a fairy world.
It was very late when they reached the farm-house; Frau Runkel greeted them cordially, and immediately after helping them off with their wraps, poured out steaming hot coffee to warm them up, the night air having been a trifle chilly.
Ferdinand went directly to his room after coffee was served. It was on the opposite side of the house, on the ground floor; the farm-house was but one story high, with a lofty attic above. In one corner of the large bedroom stood a canopied bed of dark wood, elaborately painted in bright colors, on head and foot board, with designs of flowers and birds. There were two small, stiff-backed wooden chairs, a night-table, upon which stood a brass candlestick, and an enormous wardrobe or chest for his clothes. All the furnishings of the room, even to the rug by the bed, were the handiwork of the occupants of the farm-house, for no true Austrian peasant would condescend to purchase these household necessities from a shop. Between two voluminous feather beds Ferdinand slept soundly, nor did he stir until he heard voices in the garden. Hastily dressing, he made his way into the living-room, where breakfast had already been partaken of by the others.
"I'm so sorry to be late," he apologized, shamefacedly. "Why didn't you call me, mother?" he asked, as he turned to the one who must naturally share the responsibility of her children's shortcomings.
"We thought to let you have your rest," answered Frau Müller. "Your day will be very full. You evidently enjoyed your downy bed."