The F——g district, as it is called, where the scene of this legend is laid, is one of the highest points in the great range of the Alleghany mountains. High, broken peaks, capped with towering pines, rise upon every side in billowy confusion; while the loftier and more regular chains of mountains stretch far away in every direction, fading and sinking upon the eye, until from a rich, dark green, they seem to meet and unite with the azure of the sky. Rough, rocky precipices; a red and stony soil, where the green mosses crawl and intertwist, in confused, yet beautiful arrangement, over the sward; thick low underwood, and forests almost impenetrable from their density; deep ravines, and craggy watercourses, some entirely destitute of water, and others, gushing precipitately along, flushed by unfailing springs, are the characteristics of this mountain district. The rude log cabins of the few inhabitants of this country, lie distant and scantily scattered through the almost pathless woods, and the entire appearance of the scenery has a sublime, though a savage and uncultivated air. The original settlers of this tract were Germans and Swiss, whose descendants, even at the present day, are almost the sole tenantry of these hills. Their nature seems congenial to the surrounding mountains; and the national exercise of the rifle, the merry dance and song, and those yet more venerable Dionysia, the apple-butter boilings, quilting parties, and log liftings, still constitute the favorite amusements of this primitive people. Even their religion, a strange compound of German mysticism, engrafted upon a plentiful stock of superstition, seems peculiarly appropriate to their mode of living, and their wild country. Nay, the very dress of a century back, still holds its fashion among these hills; and the peasant or hunter, loosely attired in his homespun suit of brown or blue adorned with fringe, or decked out with large, antique, silver or pewter buttons, occasionally garnished with the effigies of some popular saint; his large, broad brimmed wool hat, flapped over his face; his leather leggings; and dark, curly beard, presents a lively image of his fathers, the original settlers of the district. Add to this, the bright, keen wood-knife, sheathed in its leather case, and stuck in a broad girdle, with the powder horn and pouch; and the unfailing rifle strapped across the shoulder, and you have a perfect description of the general appearance of that people, who inhabit the F——g settlement, and the back-woods of Pennsylvania, at the present day.

Rudenfranck and his companion strode onward through the woods for some time without speaking. The elder hunter eyeing his friend keenly, at last broke the unsocial silence.

“I need not ask of thee, Adolf, why thy brow is clouded, and thine eye so heavy. I, myself, although thou mayest smile at such confession from me, have suffered long, and deeply, from a like cause. But my tale shall not now interrupt thy grief, and I have often thought that the very leaves of the forest would find tongues to repeat a story, which might move nature herself. I would afford thee aid; not gall thy wounds by the recital of my own. Speak; is it not thus? Thou hast met Barbara Mullerhorn, even after her churlish father had forbidden thy suit. I know too well, Adolf, that the more we are opposed the brighter burns our love. But in pursuing thus thy suit, thou hast not done wisely. Yet I may still aid thee, and I will do so.”

“Alas, good Franz,” replied the youth, “this complaint is far beyond thy remedy. Gold alone can sway the determination of Philip Mullerhorn, and well dost thou know that Chriss Mienckel is the richest man in the settlement. How then canst thou, a poor hunter like myself, afford that aid, which wealth alone can give? No! no! I see nought save disappointment—save despair!”

“Thou knowest but little of me, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, solemnly, “but thou art destined to learn more. See, the moon is already rising through the pines, and on this evening, the annual recurrence of which, is fraught with dread and woe to me; and each succeeding anniversary of which, brings me nearer to my stern destiny, shalt thou learn of me a secret, which, if thou hast the fearlessness of soul to fathom, all may be well, at least with thee. But thou canst only learn it of me.”

“Rudenfranck,” said Adolf, “the hunters speak much evil of thee, and strange tales are current concerning thee in the settlement. Unholy things, it is said, flit round thy hut in the hushed hour of midnight. Unholy sounds are heard resounding through the deep glen where thou abidest. Old men speak warily of thee, and cross themselves as thou passest by, and the village maidens shrink from thy hand in the dance. These may be idle tales; but, Rudenfranck, thy words to-night are suspicious. Nevertheless, be thou wizard or enchanter; be thy knowledge that of the good saints, or of a darker world, to thee and to that knowledge I commit myself. Thou hast proved thy friendship, and, for weal or woe, I will trust thee.”

“Men speak not all aright,” rejoined the hunter, while a dark shadow obscured his visage, and his words fell as though he spake them unwillingly, “nor say they altogether wrong.” The young huntsman looked at Rudenfranck for a moment; then, grasping his hand, he cried—

“Then thou canst aid me, Rudenfranck?”

“That will I, as I have the power,” said the hunter; “but we are at the hut. Thy hand upon it, that what I shall tell thee will find a grave in thy breast. Else I will not, I cannot assist thee.”

“My hand upon it,” replied Adolf.

“Enter then,” said the hunter, “let fear be a stranger to thy breast, and all shall yet be well.”

As they entered the cottage, a shadowy form flitted past the door, and the wind sighed mournfully through the forest.