Anthony Wallner sat in his lonely Alpine hut on the height near the village of Ober-Peischlag, and listened to the storm, which howled so loudly to-night that the but shook and he was unable to sleep on his couch of straw. He had lighted his lamp, and sat musingly at the pine table, leaning his head on his hand, and brooding mournfully over his dreary future. How long would he have to remain herein his open grave? How lone would he be chased yet, like a wild beast, from mountain to mountain? How long would he be obliged yet to lead an idle and unprofitable life in this frozen solitude, exposed to the fury of the elements, and in constant dread of losing this miserable life? These were the questions that he asked himself; intense rage seized his heart, tears of bitter grief filled his eyes—not however, at his own misfortunes, but at the miseries of his fatherland.
"What am I suffering for? What did I fight and risk my life for? What did we all shed our blood for? What did our brethren die for on the field of battle? The fatherland was not saved, the French defeated us, and our emperor abandoned us. We were brave defenders of our country, and now they call us criminals; we intended to save the fatherland, and now they call us rebels and traitors! The emperor gives us away like a piece of merchandise, regardless of his sacred pledges, and the French are chasing us as though we were thieves and murderers! And Thou sufferest it, God in heaven? Thou— Hark! did not that sound like a shot? Is it the wind that is knocking so loudly at my door?"
He sprang to his feet, took up his rifle, cocked it, and aimed at the door.
There was another knocking at the door; no, it was assuredly not the storm that was rapping and hammering at it so regularly. No, no, it was the enemy! He had spied him out, he had discovered his track, he had come to seize him!
"I will sell my life dearly," murmured Anthony Wallner, grimly. "I will shoot down the first man who opens the door; then I will force a passage through the ranks with the butt-end of my rifle, and—"
"Father," cried a voice outside, "father, open the door!"
"Great God!" murmured Wallner, "did not that sound like my Lizzie calling me? But that is impossible; it cannot be she; she cannot have ascended the mountain-path; the storm would have killed her, and—"
"Father, dear father, pray open the door," shouted the voice again, and somebody shook the door.
Wallner laid down his rifle and hastened to the door. "May God protect me if they deceive me, but I believe it is Lizzie."
He threw open the door; the little Tyrolese lad rushed in, embraced him tenderly, kissed him with his cold lips, and whispered, "My father! thank God, I am with you!"