As Adolf returned homeward, many and various were the contending reflections which embittered his mind. At one time he thought of the misery which he must endure in beholding the object of his dearest affections, united to Mienckel, her profound aversion; now, vague dreams of the wealth and happiness which the possession of the hidden treasure would confer upon him, flitted across his mind; but a chill damp struck through his soul as he remembered the intimated penalty; and wild imaginations of spectral forms, demoniac faces, and the awful legendary tales, so current among the peasantry, filled his breast with horror. He reached his cottage, and threw himself upon his humble couch, agonised by conflicting emotions. No sleep visited his pillow, and early the next morning he arose and went forth, hoping to subdue the fever of his blood by exercise in the cold air. He wandered about for some time, listless in which direction he took his way, until he found himself near the farm house of old Mullerhorn.

It was a jolly day at the house of that ancient. Turkeys, geese, pigs, and the promiscuous tenantry of the barn yard, bled beneath the knives of the rosy Dutch damsels. The smoke curled in copious volumes from the ample chimneys, and the hissing of culinary utensils, employed at the genial occupation of preparing divers dainties, together with the savory odors from the purlieus of the kitchen, gave indisputable tokens that something highly important was taking place in the house. Adolf viewed this busy scene with melancholy feelings enough, for he well presaged what it meaned. He paused, and leaned sadly on his rifle; but his heart felt still heavier, when, from a window of the farm house a fair white hand was extended, waving a handkerchief toward him. A tear stole down his cheek, as he acknowledged the signal, and, raising his rifle, was about to depart, when a slight tap on the shoulder arrested him, and a plump little maiden, whose rosy cheeks, and smiling face, were the very emblems of good humor, in fact, a perfect Dutch Hebe, accosted him.

“Why, how now, master Adolf? Have you not a word for an old acquaintance?”

“Ah, Agatha, is it thou? How dost thou, my good lass?”

“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.

The room into which they were ushered, was an ample, commodious apartment, constructed in the true Dutch fashion, with a polished oak floor, and noble rafters of the same wood. It was hung around with some few gay colored prints, illustrating Scripture subjects, and some bright tin sconces; and the furniture was substantial, although homely. A large mahogany press, whose bright surface and polished brass knobs, might have compared in brilliancy with the mirror, stood in one corner; an old fashioned Indian chest, ponderous and highly japanned, ornamented the opposite niche. Some heavy chairs with long, high backs, and formal arms and legs; the never failing spinning wheel and Dutch clock; and a pair of tall, ill-shaped, brass fire-dogs, completed the garniture of the apartment. The walls were decorated with festoons of evergreen, tastefully arranged by the fair hands of Barbara herself. Two ill-looking, dingy paintings, also occupied a couple of recesses; and a neatly polished cherry table, near a window, displayed an inviting array of apple brandy, cherry wine, cider, and such refreshments as were indigenous to the country. The good dame, after welcoming kindly her guests, bustled off to resume the superintendence of the kitchen; and the unfortunate Barbara herself, arrayed in bridal trim, and looking through her tears, as lovely as the violet, freshly bathed in dew, remained, seated in one of the large chairs, and vainly endeavoring to conceal her emotion. As Adolf entered, her heart palpitated violently, and she could with difficulty so far command herself, as to bid him welcome. Nor did the sight of Barbara in such distress, fail equally to afflict her lover; a grief which Rudenfranck artfully increased, by hinting strongly to Adolf, the possibility of changing the entire face of the scene.

The magistrate having arrived, and matters being so arranged as to bring the affiance to a conclusion, Rudenfranck took the opportunity to lead Adolf apart from the rest.

“Thou thrice sodden ass,” said he, “can’st thou call thyself a lover, and yet allow so much innocence and beauty to be sacrificed to age and avarice? Say thou the word; promise to obey me, and thou shalt yet possess her. See, they are about to sign. Hesitate a moment longer—and look, Barbara implores thee—she is lost. Farewell.”

“Stay,” rejoined Adolf, hurriedly, “this must not—shall not be. Rudenfranck, I promise.”

“Then, demand of old Mullerhorn that the ceremony be delayed, and leave the rest to me.”

“Father Philip,” said Adolf, addressing Mullerhorn, who was just about to affix his name to the deed, “you are aware how long and how truly I have loved Barbara. To see her thus sacrificed, is more than I can bear, and I entreat you to consider farther upon this matter, and to defer this marriage.”

The guests looked utterly confounded. Chriss Mienckel opened wide his large, gray eyes, and stared upon the bold hunter in profound amazement. Barbara turned red and pale by turns; and old Mullerhorn crimsoned with rage.

“Have I not told ye, Adolf Westerbok, that I would never bestow Barbara upon a beggarly hunter? What devil then, prompts thee to interrupt a match which thou hast no power to prevent?”

“Dearest father,” said Barbara, clasping the hard hand of the old man, “hearken to Adolf.”

“Away, idle girl! Adolf, tempt me not to do thee an injury.”

“Nay,” said the hunter, “is it even so? Well, then; gold for gold—ducat for ducat—nay, double each ducat that old Mienckel can bestow, will I lay before you, Philip Mullerhorn.”

“Thy morning draught has been somewhat of the strongest, Adolf. Where should’st thou have met with these sums?” Chriss Mienckel chuckled portentously, and thrusting each hand into his capacious pockets, a melodious harmony of jingling coins soon resounded from their precincts.

“Look in thy pouch,” whispered Rudenfranck. Adolf did so, and drew forth two purses, richly furnished with gold. Astonishment fairly stupified the guests; and the covetous eyes of old Mullerhorn glistened at the sight of money. But the recollection of Mienckel’s broad lands and fair cattle crossed his mind.

“Gold for gold,” said he, musingly. “Well, well, it may be so; and Adolf, when thou canst certify me concerning these riches, thou shalt, perhaps, find me not altogether opposed to thee. This ceremony, for the present, with the consent of Mienckel, shall be postponed.”

Mienckel nodded his assent; for he was a man of but few words. But Adolf, holding the hand of Barbara, demanded an immediate trial.

“Be it so, then,” replied Mullerhorn. “My neighbor’s property is well known. Let it be thy task to prove thy fortune equal to his.”

“Yes,” said Mienckel, “house and farm—cattle and gear—broad lands—rich farming ground—bright ducats——”

“To balance which, I throw, as earnest, these purses,” said Adolf. “Rudenfranck, can’st thou not aid me now?” whispered he, turning to the hunter.

“Not now,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “you have the last of my gold. To-night——”

“To-night!” said Adolf, impatiently, “an age! Father Philip, I pledge myself that on the morrow I will prove myself worthy your regard in purse as well as in love.”

“Agreed,” said Mullerhorn, “until to-morrow let the espousal be deferred. If thou can’st then satisfy my doubts, Barbara shall be thine. If not, this marriage shall no longer be prevented.”

“Thanks, father, and farewell. Come thou with me, Rudenfranck. Ere to-morrow night, sweet Barbara, all shall be accomplished.”

Rudenfranck and Adolf left the house, and walked through the forest in the direction of the hut of Rudenfranck. Few words were exchanged between them, until, being arrived at the hut, they closed the door carefully, and Adolf broke silence.

“Now, Rudenfranck,” said he, “I must know the means by which this treasure may be discovered. Speak then, and quickly. I promise obedience in all matters, faithfully and truly.”

“Then,” replied Rudenfranck, “it is thus. Meet me to-night, as the moon casts a straight shadow over the range of the Wolf Hills. You know the dark cavern by the run, where, it is said, that old Schwearenheim was carried off bodily, by the Evil One——”

“It is a fearful place, and a fearful hour,” said Adolf.

“Fool, thou hast gone too far to recede. Only hint at doing so, and, by all the fiends of hell, I withdraw every hope of my assistance from thee. Wilt thou excite the expectations of Barbara, only to dash them again to the earth? Wilt thou thus vacillate, until it becomes too late to save her from Mienckel? If thou dost so, thou art the veriest driveller that wears man’s attire. Mark me, and answer not. Meet me there, at the cave, when the midnight hour arrives; and hark thee, thou must procure a wafer of the consecrated host. Bring thy rifle with thee, and leave the rest to my care.”

“Be it so,” said Adolf, “it is too late to recede.”

“See that thou fail not,” said Rudenfranck, “and now promise to Mullerhorn what thou wilt. Keep thou but faith with me, and thou shalt enjoy all that thou hast ever hoped for. Be not seen with me to-day. Go to the village. Look cheerily; procure that which I have directed thee, and fail not at midnight.”