Still there had been happy times in that other life. Two years ago, for instance, when his mother and he had travelled, leisurely through Germany, halting whenever they chose, and remaining as long as places interested them. Thoughts of his mother recalled the plaintive little German folk-song of which she had been so fond.
Muss i denn. Yes, that was it, and involuntarily Alaric began to hum the air. Then the words began to fit themselves to it, and before he realized what he was doing he was singing softly:
"Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum Städtele 'naus, Städtele 'naus:
Und du mein Schatz bleibst hier—"
So engrossed was the lad with his thoughts and with trying to recall the words of the song running in his head that he heard nothing of a soft footstep that for several minutes had been stealthily approaching the fire-lit place where he sat. He knew nothing of the wild eyes that, peering from a haggard face, were fixed upon him with the glare of madness. He had no suspicion of the brown rifle-barrel that was slowly raised until he was covered by its deadly aim. But now he had recalled all the words of his song, and they rang out strong and clear:
"Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum Städtele 'naus, Städtele 'naus:
Und du—"
THE STARTLED LAD SPRANG TO HIS FEET IN TERROR.
At that moment there came a great cry from behind him: "Ach, Himmel! Wer ist denn das!" and the startled lad sprang to his feet in terror.