"The master has turned her out."
"Turned her out! old Luckard!" cried Wally. "Why, what's been the matter?"
"She couldn't get on with Vincenz, and he's everything with the master now," the boy explained in a tone of indifference, and, whistling, he hoisted the bundle of Wally's things. Wally had turned quite pale. "And where is she now?" she asked.
"With old Annemiedel in Winterstall."
"How long ago did it happen?"
"Oh, about three weeks ago. She cried ever so, and could hardly walk, the fright went to her knees; Klettenmaier and the boy had to hold her or she'd have tumbled down. All the village stood round and looked on to see her go away."
Wally had listened motionless, her sunburnt face had turned quite pale, and her breast heaved painfully. When the boy had ended, she seized her staff from the wall, flung the vulture on to her shoulder, and stepped out of the hut.
"Go on first," she commanded in a hoarse voice. The little flock was quickly assembled, the milking gear packed together, and the procession set itself in motion. Wally spoke not a word; a fearful tension marked her features, and with lips pressed together, a threatening line that recalled her father's look between her thick brows, she led the flock onwards with long strides, her firm step leaving deep tracks in the snow. Faster and ever faster she walked, the farther down she got, till the boy with the flock could scarcely keep up with her, and where the way was steep she struck the iron point of her staff into the soil and swung herself down with a mighty spring, so that only the vulture in the air could follow her path over cliffs and crevasses. Often both herdsman and flock vanished in the mist behind her; then she stood still and waited a moment till they were in sight, and when the boy had indicated the direction of the road, on she went again without rest or pause, as if it were a matter of life and death.
At last the region of perpetual snow was passed, and at Wally's feet lay Vent, as it had lain six months before when she had gone up the mountain; only not now in the glow of the May sunshine, but forlorn, autumnal, cold and dead. The boy announced that they must rest there for a while. Wally refused, but the boy declared it would be as good as killing both man and beast, not to rest for half an hour.
"As thou will," said Wally, "stay--. I am going on. If they ask where I am when thou gets home, say only that I am gone to old Luckard." And she strode on, the flapping wings of the faithful Hansl rustling over her; he could fly now as he liked, for Wally no longer clipped his wings.