As we have seen, the Romans were still ignorant whether the Barbarians were aware of the bands approaching simultaneously from several directions to menace the inhabitants of the forest with destruction. Preparations had been made so secretly that the commanders believed it possible to take the foe completely by surprise. For weeks not a German had been allowed to pass the guards on the very outermost line of Roman territory, which, it is true, had been greatly diminished in the course of the last three or four generations. The right of traffic at the stations on the southern shore had been withdrawn a still longer time, on the pretext of alleged violations of the conditions of such intercourse. Roman traders had not ventured recently within the precincts occupied by neighbors who were justly irritated by such severity.

The sentinels on the frontier reported that nothing unusual could be seen from the watch towers. The people went about their work in field and forest as usual, tended their numerous flocks, hunted or fished; apparently they thought neither of defence nor flight.

Once, it is true, one of the speculÆ reported that, late one night, a fire had suddenly blazed upon a mountain peak probably several miles from the lake and, after a short interval, as suddenly vanished. The Alemanni called the towering height, whose summit was visible for many a mile, the Sacred Mountain, the Holy Mountain, and Odin's Mountain, and the name has clung to it tenaciously. True, in later times the "sacred" related to Christian consecration; but at the present day the stately castle on that majestic height bears the title of Heiligenberg. On the spot where Odin's ash-trees then rustled, the breeze now sweeps across the flower-beds of a beautiful garden.

The report was unheeded. Forest fires, even at night, were not unusual among the Germans, who in their labor of clearing the ground often required, in the place of the axe, the aid of the swifter flame. During the next few days also everything remained quiet.

On the morning after that night--it was a few days prior to the Romans' march across the height of Meersburg, already described--a youth emerged from the dense woods stretching for miles in a northwesterly direction toward the Holy Mountain, a youth whose figure was as straight, tall, and slender as a young pine. The hood of lynx-skin fluttering from his shoulders like a short cloak did not confine his long fair locks, which fell in waves upon his shoulders, waves with which the morning breeze played caressingly, as the youth stopped on the crest of a low grassy hill that afforded a view of the lake.

Resting his right arm upon the oak handle of his spear, he leaned forward, shading his eyes with his left hand from the glare of the sunbeams on the smooth surface of the water, as he gazed intently toward the southern shore. It was an eagle glance, proud, bold, and keen, and the color of the eye was a light golden brown.

The red-tiled roofs of the Roman watchtowers and citadels opposite in Arbon and the other stations (Constantia, etc.) shone brightly in the morning sunlight. The utmost repose pervaded the whole scene. Neither sail nor row-boat was visible: a huge kite, with an occasional stroke of its broad pinions, was soaring in wide circles above the shallows near the shore.

The young German turned his eyes in the direction of the gently rising ground before him northwest of Friedrichshafen, now occupied by the village of Jettenhausen. At that time the land had been cleared and brought under cultivation. The hill was crowned by a stately wooden structure, surrounded by a fence built breast-high for purposes of defence; a pair of superb antlers adorned the ridge-pole. From the main building itself and a small one adjoining it smoke circled upward through holes in the roof: the inmates were doubtless preparing the morning meal.

The youth made a movement in the direction of the hall, on which his eyes had rested proudly, yet with an expression of almost sorrowful earnestness, then he paused suddenly, saying to himself: "No! I will go first to her." He hastened eastward through what was then a tract of marshy woodland--now bearing the name of Seewald--crossing it in the direction of the Tettnang forests. Often he was forced to leap from rock to rock or from one mossy hillock to another, that he might not sink waist-deep in the morass. But the young German seemed perfectly familiar with the almost invisible path which, sometimes in the form of a ford, sometimes as a bridge, led through the bog and the dense underbrush. Swinging himself with a daring leap, aided by the handle of his spear, across a tolerably wide stream which flowed through moss and sedges to the lake--a startled red grouse flew upward with a shrill cry--he soon saw before him the nearest settlement to his own stately dwelling: for he was the lord of the manor he had left behind. In this region neighbors lived more than a league apart; it was not until succeeding generations that the scattered freeholds along the lake grew into villages.

The little house in the forest--it might almost be called a hut--nestled modestly at the foot of a low hill which sheltered it from the northeast wind. The old roof was overgrown with dark green moss, and the small stable forming part of the dwelling afforded room for only a few head of cattle. Yet everything was neat and well-kept, especially the little pasture in whose fenced inclosure stood several fruit-trees, while the eye noted with surprise the presence in this wilderness of several ornamental plants belonging to Rome or Southern Gaul: the yew and--carefully tended--some fine roses. Across the top of the ridge-pole was a four-pointed star, clumsily carved from pine-wood, but unmistakable. Its beauty, however, had not been increased by its having been smeared with the red lead used to color the house-mark cut in it--evidently a recent act.

The youth's first glance as he came in sight of the little house was unconsciously directed toward the star on the roof. When he saw the red paint a smile curled the well-cut mouth, which was not yet wholly concealed by the downy beard of early manhood. His second look sought the top of the low hill, where an ancient oak, now steeped in the golden sunshine, was waving its gnarled branches in the morning breeze; long garlands of goat's beard, dangling from the boughs, swayed to and fro. A circular wooden bench surrounded the trunk, and on the southern side a few large stones had been arranged to form a sort of table.