Johannes went up the mountain path where he had first seen the two little girls. It was a still, beautiful September day—a little misty. Here and there, beneath the underwood, the ferns had become all brown; and the blackberries, wet with dew, were glistening along his way amid their red-bordered leaves. How many spider-webs there were amidst the foliage! There was a solemn stillness over all; but, as Johannes climbed farther up the mountain dell, he heard the constant rushing of water, and in the small mountain meadows—the open places in the woods—he saw many little rivulets glistening in the grass, gurgling and murmuring as they flowed.
Still farther, where the woods were denser and the mountains more lonely, he heard now and then the sound of a fleeing deer; and he saw too a fine roe, with fear-filled eyes and large ears directed toward himself from the forest's edge.
At last he came to a narrow path bordering a small brook. To right and left were dark rocks glistening with moisture and beautifully overgrown with fantastic lichens; and there were little rosette-like clumps of ferns, and exquisite, graceful maiden-hair, gently quivering in the spray of the waterfall. Higher up began the overhanging underwood, and thorny bramble-bushes, while only now and then were there glimpses of the steep mountain sides, with the knotty roots of dense firs and beeches.
There seemed no end to that path. It wound all through the bottom of the ravine, following the brook—sometimes crossing it by a couple of stepping-stones, and thence again continuing to the other bank. And it grew stiller in the mountains. The blue sky above could seldom be seen, and the sunlight sifted only dimly through the leaves of the mountain ash and the hazel tree. Tall digitalis, with its rows of red and yellow bells, looked down upon Johannes out of the shadowy depths of the thicket with venomous regard, as if threatening him.
Where was he? An agitation, half anxious, half delightful, took possession of him. It was like Windekind's wonderland here!
He went on and on, wondering how much farther he could go without there being a change. He grew very tired, and then quite distressed.
Out of the general stillness a vague, indefinable sound now proceeded. At first it seemed to be the throbbing and rushing of his blood, and the heart-beats in his ears; but it was stronger and more distinct—a roaring, with an undertone of melancholy moaning like continuous thunder or ocean surf, constant and regular, and, also, a higher note sounding by fits and starts, like the ringing of bells borne by a high wind.
And listen! A sound loud as the report of a cannon, making the ground tremble!
Johannes ran about in his agitation, looking on all sides. But there was no wind—every leaflet, every blade of grass, was still as death. The sound of water, alone—the rush of water—grew louder!
Then he saw, in front of him, the small cascade which caused the sound. The brook was flowing over the face of a rock, down amid the ferns. The path seemed to come to an end, and lose itself in the darkness.