The shades of evening were gradually enveloping the country in darkness, as Adolf and Barbara sat together, in the mansion of the Mullerhorns. They spoke of love and happier times, and the bright eyes of the maiden beamed joyously upon the countenance of the youth. Adolf had learned the art of dissimulation in a brief space of time. Alas! it is but the first step in evil that alarms, and he, that has abandoned the paths of virtue, but for a moment, finds it far more difficult to retrace his steps, than to continue in the ways of error. To the enquiries of Barbara, concerning the wealth which he had so lately acquired, he replied, that the death of a relation, whose property was ample, had enabled him to compete, in point of riches, even with Christopher Mienckel. Barbara fully believed him; for true love is ever ready of faith; and fondly pictured to herself many a scene of happiness and of domestic felicity. Thus the evening wore on; and the hunter was startled to hear the hour of ten strike from the clock, as he arose to quit the society of Barbara, and to join the companion of his unhallowed undertaking.

“Whither away to-night, and so early, Adolf?” asked Barbara, as the hunter made ready to depart.

“I have shot a buck in the forest, and must seek aid to bring him in,” replied Adolf.

“It is full late to seek your game in the broad forest to-night, Adolf,” said Piet Albrecht, who had been solacing himself with a dish of discourse with Agatha, in the kitchen, and now came to bid Barbara good night. “Yet, if you would wish my help, to show you that I have forgotten our difference, I don’t care if I go with you.”

“I thank thee, Piet,” replied the young man, “but the game lies far off, and Franz Rudenfranck has promised to go with me.”

“Where have you left it?” asked Barbara.

“Deep in the forest; near the Wolf Hills. At the cave of Schwearenheim.”

“I know not,” said Piet, shuddering, “what could tempt me to go there, so near midnight. It will be nearly that, Adolf, when you reach there, and the cave is, the saints be good to us, an unholy spot.”

“Pshaw, Piet, this is mere superstition,” said the hunter; but his cheek glowed, and his flesh trembled. “Why should the cave be a more unholy spot than any other part of the forest?”

“You know as well as I do, Adolf, that few of the hunters have the courage to pass there after dark. My father has told me awful things of the place, and one of them happened to himself.”

“What was that, pray, Piet?” said Agatha, “did he tumble into the run, and fancy that the water was Schiedam?”

“Nothing of the sort, Mistress Agatha,” responded Piet. “You must know that my father was a woodsman, as bold as any man among the hills. He happened to be late out one evening, after game; and had chased a large mountain cat to the run, where the cat climbed up an old hollow tree. My father followed him closely, and mounted after him; but his hold gave way, as he was looking down the hollow, and he slipped clear through the hole, good forty feet down the inside of the tree. Well, he thought that his hour was come, and that he should starve to death there; for the inside of the tree was so smooth that he could get no hold for either hand or foot; and so he had lost all hope of ever escaping, when he saw something black come sliding down the tree. He recommended himself to God, and when the thing, whatever it was, came within reach, he seized hold of it, and it climbed up again, dragging my father after it. It had no sooner reached the top of the tree; but a loud clap of thunder was heard, and the thing sailed away in a flame of fire, far away over the tree tops. My father clung fast to the trunk of the tree, and slid down the outside, after he had clambered out of the hollow; then thanking Providence for his deliverance, he went home as fast as his legs could carry him.”

“A wonderful tale, indeed, Piet,” said Agatha, laughing.

“Wonderful enough,” said Piet.

“Well, Piet,” said Adolf, “was this truth?”

“Truth!” replied Piet, “I should like to have heard any man tell my father that it was otherwise.”

“Do not go to-night, dearest Adolf,” said Barbara, turning pale.

“This is mere folly, sweet Barbara. If I failed to bring home my buck, all the hunters would cry shame upon me.”

The clock struck the half hour, and Adolf, snatching up his rifle, bade Barbara good night, and leaving the house, struck into the path which led to the Wolf Hills.

“Aye, aye,” said Piet, looking after him, “he doesn’t believe in any such matters; but I fear it is no good that he is bent upon. So much gold, too, and so lately. But it’s no affair of mine. Did you mark the wildness of his eye, though, Agatha?”