The night of the twenty-third of June is a short night at best. When one robs its beginning of four or five hours, there is little darkness left. Bidding his son go to bed, John Conrad spent the night in vigil. In spite of his reminder that this was not a time for grief, he went again to the little church. From thence he climbed through the ruined vineyards to the pastures on the hill where his father and his grandfather had pastured their sheep and cattle. There he stood long and looked about him, his mind traveling back to the happiness of their peaceful lives, spent in sturdy labor and sweetened by the honor which they had had among their fellows. Here were the roots of his own life, deep in the soil—would God that he could stay where he had been born! He was no longer young, responsibility and adversity had made him old. Those rosy stories of the new land—might they not be as other travelers' tales, concealing a reality worse than this fearful present of hunger and fear? Five hundred miles of river, three thousand miles of sea, and then an unsettled country! The same shapes of fear which had fascinated and disturbed young Conrad seemed now to await his father behind every tree and bush.

Suddenly John Conrad heard a soft sound on the summer wind. George Reimer, as restless as himself, was somewhere about with his dear flute. John Conrad bent his ear to the direction from which the sound came. It was a German hymn, "A Mighty Stronghold is Our God." John Conrad lifted his head and with it his heart. George Reimer would be with them and George Reimer's flute. Returning to his house, John Conrad lay down for a little sleep before dawn.

But George Reimer did not go to the new country. Upon the indescribable confusion of the Weiser house the next morning, he came smiling.

Into sheets and coverlets the Weisers had tied all their movable possessions, the various articles making curious knobs and projections on the great bundles. The family spinning-wheel must go—surely no article was more necessary! This Conrad was to carry on his back. The few cooking-pots which remained—these must be taken, though all else were left behind. Wardrobes were small, sheets were few, pillows did not exist. The feather beds could not be carried—these were given to the neighbors.

About hovered all Gross Anspach. Each person had brought a little gift, a tiny trinket saved from the pillaging of the hamlet, a little bouquet of the few garden flowers which had survived the cruel winter, a loaf of bread or a package of dried beans for soup. Catrina, a baby on each arm, wept loudly. Each baby had to be embraced many times by its departing relatives and each departing relative had to be embraced by all the village. Under foot, six tiny kittens risked their lives. Old Redebach, tottering feebly about, quoted warning passages of Scripture:—

"As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place."

On the doorstep sat Wolf, his solemn eyes watching the scene in amazement. Everywhere was confusion, everywhere was noise.

For a few moments George Reimer watched quietly.

"Neighbors!" cried he. "If you cannot help these friends, stand back! Here, Conrad, I will tie that bundle. Here, John Frederick, I am to be your horse as far as the river; see that you behave, or I will run away. Sabina, I will keep your kittens if I have to catch the mice for them myself."

With one accord the Weisers turned upon him.

"You are going with us, surely!"

"Only to the river." His eyes sought those of John Conrad. "I cannot go farther. My little sisters are too young, my father too feeble, my mother is sick—I can neither take them nor leave them alone."

"God will reward you," said John Conrad. "But it is a sore loss to us."

In the end no one went beyond the river. From weeping Gross Anspach the Weisers and a dozen accompanying friends separated themselves at seven o'clock, the Weisers carrying nothing, the burdens on the shoulders of their neighbors. At the heels of the procession walked Wolf. At the summit of the first hill all looked back, save Conrad. The little village lay smiling in the sun; to the pilgrims it seemed like Heaven.

"I cannot go," cried Magdalena.

"Oh, father, let us stay," begged Margareta.

Before John Conrad could answer, a cheerful sound restored the courage of the pilgrims and George Reimer's gay "Susy, dear Susy" set their feet moving.

At the village of Oberdorf there was a halt, while greetings were exchanged, explanations made, and messages written down for friends already in America. Among those to whom greetings were sent was the magistrate who must be by this time safely across the sea.

Here the Gross Anspachers, except the schoolmaster, turned back and the Weisers shouldered their own bundles. It became clear now that there were more bundles than persons and the fact occasioned much laughter and readjustment.

At night the Weisers slept by the wayside. The fare on the boat would draw a large sum from John Conrad's store and not a penny could be spent for lodging. Lulled by Reimer's flute, they slept comfortably, and, roused by the same music, were off soon after daylight.

At the river came the most difficult of partings. Here George Reimer played a last lullaby and a final reveillÉ. A river boat, the Elspeth, had anchored near by for the night and upon it the family took passage. The goods were carried aboard and piled in the center of the deck and John Conrad and his eight children followed. At once came a protest from the captain. Old Wolf could not go, and Conrad was commanded to lead him from the boat. Conrad forgot that he was thirteen years old, forgot that he was the man of the family next to his father, forgot his boasted superiority to Margareta and Magdalena and the rest, and threw his arms round the old dog's neck.

"I cannot leave you! I cannot leave you!"

Then he felt himself lifted up and put aboard the gangplank.

"There, Conrad, there! I will take care of him. I have given your father something for you. Show yourself brave, dear lad!"

Stumbling, Conrad boarded the boat. He saw the schoolmaster wave his hand, he saw the green shores slip away, he heard his father's voice.

"Your teacher gave me this for you, Conrad."

"Oh, father!" cried Conrad.

In his hand lay the schoolmaster's flute.

"He said you were to practice diligently and to remember him."

The message made Conrad weep the more. He threw himself down on the pile of household goods and hid his face.

When he looked up his father sat beside him. In his hand were two books. He looked at his son anxiously.

"Conrad, we are going among strange people. The first are the Hollanders, with whom we can make ourselves understood. But of English we know nothing. Now we will learn as well as we can, I and you. The schoolmaster gave me an English Bible, in it we will study daily, comparing it with our own."

"What will we do about the language of the savages?" asked Conrad, drying his tears. "How will we make ourselves understood by them?"

"There will be time enough for that. It is probable that they compel them to learn English. The savages are a long way off."

For a few days John Conrad and his son studied diligently. There was little else to do in the long hours which glided as quietly by as the stream. The country about them was unbroken and flat; here there went on a simple life like their own. Everywhere were to be seen in the brown fields and the dead vineyards the ravages of the fearful winter.

In return for a little help about the boat, the helmsman, who had served on English ships, did his best to interpret the hardest words for the students. To the surly captain they dared not speak. Once the price for the journey was paid into his hand, he seemed to resent even the sight of his passengers. Frequently he was not sober, and then the helmsman helped the Weisers to keep out of his way. Unlike the rest of his race, he could not endure the sound of music and Conrad and his flute were objects of special dislike. More than once he threatened to throw both into the river.

When the boat stopped at the city of Speyer for a day and night, studying and flute-practicing stopped entirely and, urged by the friendly helmsman, the Weisers went on shore. Now for the first time the children saw a large town; with eager expectation they stepped on the wharf. But here, too, was ruin and desolation. The great buildings, burned by the enemy who had devastated their own village, had not been restored; the cathedral which towered above the ruins was itself but a hollow shell. When they reached the next large town of Mannheim, they did not leave the boat. With increasing longing they looked forward across the ocean to the Paradise where the enemy had not been.

Daily they were joined by other pilgrims who like themselves looked forward with aching eyes to the distant country. The newcomers had each his own story of persecution and famine, of cold and misery. With them John Conrad talked, gathering from them all the information which they had about the new country, comforting them as best he could, and reading to them from Conrad's little book. To the directions they listened earnestly, hearing over and over again that they must be patient, quick to hear and slow to speak, that they must be diligent and thrifty. About the dangers of the sea they talked a great deal and were relieved to hear that a journey on an inland river was valuable as preparation for a journey on the ocean. The little book advised also that those who were about to take a journey by sea should practice on a swing.

Each day the captain was less and less able to navigate the ship. Finally the helmsman took command, and while the captain lay in a stupor, Conrad continued the forbidden flute-playing. Growing careless, he was caught, and the captain, who could reach neither Conrad nor the flute, kicked the family spinning-wheel into the river. The loss was serious and it taught a bitter lesson.

It was the twenty-fourth of June when the travelers left Gross Anspach; a month later they were still far from the mouth of the river. Each day passengers clamored on the banks, each day the number of ships in the river increased, slow packet boats which did not go above Cologne or Mainz, and faster boats which passed the heavily laden Elspeth like birds. The river left the broad meadows for a narrow gorge with precipitous banks upon which stood imposing castles. At sight of the castles the children were overcome with awe.

"There is Bingen, and its mouse tower, children," said John Conrad.

"Not where the bishop was eaten!" cried Sabina.

"Yes; and about here the treasure of the Niebelungen is buried."

"If we could only find it!" sighed Conrad.

"And there"—the helmsman pointed to ruined walls upon the cliff side—"there a brave trumpeter defended his master's life. While his master and others escaped, he blew bravely upon the walls to frighten the enemy, and when they entered, there was no one left to kill but him."

The watching of Barbara and John Frederick in their trotting about the crowded ship grew to be more and more of a task. The first person who was pushed overboard was made much of, and the man who rescued him was considered a hero. When many had fallen overboard and had been rescued the passengers scarcely turned their heads.

As day after day passed and August drew near its close, John Conrad became more and more anxious.

"It is time we were sailing from England," said he uneasily to Conrad. "The journey has taken long, food has been higher than I thought, and we have had to pay tariff a dozen times."

Again and again he took from his pocket the letter of the magistrate of Oberdorf. Of the chief of his fears he said nothing to Conrad. The good Queen of England had offered transportation to the distressed Germans; but had she realized, had any one anticipated that so vast a throng would take her at her word? The river captains told of weeks and weeks of such crowding of the lower river. Would there be ships enough to carry them all to the New World? Would the Queen provide for them until they could sail?

Presently rumors of trouble increased John Conrad's fears. A passing boat declared that the Germans were forbidden to enter Rotterdam, the lowland city at which they would have to take ship for England. The congestion had become serious. The citizens of Rotterdam announced that their patience and their resources were exhausted; the Germans could no longer wait there for English boats; they must return whence they had come.

At this announcement there was a loud outcry. Like the Weisers, the other pilgrims had sold or had given away everything except the property they carried with them; if they returned now, it would be to greater misery than that which they had left. Go on they must. John Conrad reminded them of the Lord in whom they trusted. The Queen had promised and England was rich in resources. The Queen's charity was not entirely disinterested; she expected the Germans to people her new colonies. Nor did John Conrad believe that the Hollanders would see them starve on the way to England. But even as he argued with himself, his heart misgave him. He had seen persons starve, he had seen men and women and children struck down by the swords of brutal soldiers. There was nothing in the world, he believed, too terrible for heartless men to do.

As they drew nearer to Rotterdam, the anxiety of the helmsman was plain to be seen.

"I pay no attention to what passers-by say," he told John Conrad. "But if you see any long, narrow boats, with the flag of Holland flying, then it will be time to be frightened. They will have the power to make us turn back."

Each hour the rate of travel became slower and slower. There was now no current whatever, and for many days the wind did not blow. Finally, when, at nightfall, the Elspeth came into the harbor, John Conrad breathed a deep sigh of relief. In the morning the travelers saw next them at the wharf one of the long boats which the helmsman had described, and heard that it was to start in an hour to warn all the pilgrims to return to their homes.

The passengers of the Elspeth were not allowed to enter the city, but were bidden to wait on the wharf for English ships. Here their quarters were almost as restricted as they had been on shipboard. In prompt contradiction of the statement that their patience and their supplies were exhausted, the kind Hollanders brought food to the guests who had thrust themselves upon them.

Now the helmsman came to bid his friends good-bye. John Conrad gave him many blessings and the children cried bitterly and embraced him.

"If he were only going with us, what fine times we should have on the sea!" said Conrad.

"He seems like our last friend," mourned Margareta. "Everything before us is strange."

"We thought George Reimer was our last friend," said John Conrad. "Perhaps we shall find other friends as good."

For four days, the Germans watched for a ship. When at last two English vessels came into the harbor and they were taken aboard, the Weisers had little food and less money. When John Conrad heard that no passage was to be charged, he breathed another sigh of relief.

"The good Queen will keep her promises," said he to his children. "The worst of our troubles are over."

But within an hour it seemed that the worst of their troubles had only begun. The channel crossing was rough. From their fellow travelers there was rising already a cry, which was to grow louder and louder as the weeks and months went by—"Would that we had suffered those miseries which we knew rather than tempt those which we did not know!"

When the ship entered the smooth waters of the Thames River, the Germans began to smile once more. About them were green fields. They saw pleasant villages and broad stretches of cultivated land and deer browsing under mighty trees.

"If we might only stay here!" they sighed.

John Conrad shook his head.

"Here we should not find rest."

Once more the Germans disembarked, wondering whether their stay on shore would be long enough for a closer view of the fine churches and palaces of London. Of so large a city as this even John Conrad had never dreamed.

"Shall we see the Queen?" asked Sabina in a whisper of her father.

John Conrad smiled.

"We might see her riding in her chariot."

Then John Conrad grew sober. As they stood crowded together upon the quay some young lads shouted at them roughly. The ears which expected only kindness were shocked.

"They say we are taking the bread from their mouths," repeated Conrad. "They call us 'rascally' Germans."

"There are rude folk everywhere," said John Conrad.

He directed the children to take their bundles and follow a man who seemed to have authority to conduct them to some place in which they were to spend the night.

The way thither proved to be long. Again and again it was necessary to stop to rest or to give time for the short legs of the little children to catch up. Again and again the heavy burdens were shifted about. They traveled into the open country—a strange stopping place for those who were so soon to continue their journey! They passed many men and women who looked at them curiously. Presently they heard their own German speech.

"We will have to wait awhile, probably, for ships," said John Conrad to his son. "Of course we could not expect to go on at once. We—"

John Conrad stopped short and let his bundle slip to the ground. They had come out upon a great space, which a few months before had been an open heath. Now, as far as the eye could reach, stretched long lines of tents. It was no temporary lodging, for here and there small frame store buildings had been erected and there were long-used, dusty paths between the tents. Men and women and children were going about, meals were being prepared, there was everywhere the sound of voices. John Conrad stood still in amazement.

"What is this?" he asked.

A single sharp voice answered from the doorway of a sutler's shop.

"We are Germans, lured hither by promise of passage to America. Here we wait. Here we have waited for months. Have you come, oh, fool, to wait also?"

It was not the rudeness of the answer which startled John Conrad, nor the discouraging news which it announced, but the voice of the speaker. For the speaker was none other than his friend the magistrate of Oberdorf, supposed to be by now upon the high seas or in the new country.