“Better, Adolf, than either yourself or Barbara, if there is any judgment in your looks. Why, you look as if you had seen a spectre, and if you will keep company with that black-looking wretch, that Franz Rudenfranck, I wouldn’t insure that you will not see one, some of these dark nights. Bless me, how you change color. Are you sick?”
“No, no, Agatha. Not so sick in body as in heart. How fares Barbara?”
“Why, indeed, Dolf, for I will call you Dolf again, and it’s a shame for father Philip to make us all call you master Adolf; master indeed! she has done nothing but cry all night. But she is to be married to old Chriss this morning—the odious fool! I’m sure she hates him—and I’ve a thousand things to do; so good bye to you Dolf.”
The lively little girl ran off, and Adolf again was about to pursue his path, when old Mullerhorn, accompanied by the intended bridegroom, and some of his neighbors, arrived at the farm.
“What, Adolf,” said the old man, while a cynical smile played over his thin features, “Adolf here. Thou hast been a stranger of late, lad. But, come, wilt thou not in with us and witness this merry marriage? In faith, it will gladden my little Barbara to see thee there. Come, thou must aid in this gay ceremony.”
Adolf was, for a moment, undecided what answer to make old Mullerhorn; but curbing his indignation, and repressing an angry reply—he thought it most prudent to accept the invitation.
“I thank you, neighbor Philip,” said he, “and willingly will go with you.”
“Why, that is well spoken, boy,” replied the old man, unusually elated by the occasion. “I always liked thee, Adolf; but no ducats, lad, no ducats.”
“They are not so very difficult to procure,” whispered a voice in Adolf’s ear; he turned, and beheld Rudenfranck.
“Well, in, Adolf; and eh? Franz Rudenfranck too? But, in—in with ye both,” said old Mullerhorn, and the party entered the farm-house.