Weekly Calaveras chronicle., 1867-07-06

SO t0at man ullgut nave luTkeQ lneTe
without chance of being observed till
it was too late. In front and behind
you saw nothing but the lonely path
winding painfully through the soa.bre
forest; and on the left gap in the
trees disclosed slide like the track Of
an avalanche going straight and sheer
to the raging waters The place had a
fearful look one could not help imag-
ining tales of horror Heaven help the
unsuspecting passenger who met danger
here! Still there was strange fascina-
ton IN the sight and thought, aud l
could not help taking a long and earn
est gaze. Ny old woman noticed it,
and began nodding her head significantly
from one side of the path to the other.
cay. ayl' she muttered, ''that's q
fall, sure enough. Ay. ayr
"Was it an avalanche p l asked.
She laughed feebly, and .wasged her
head again.
"An avalanche, gracious gentleman
Ay! ay. perhaps it was an avalanche.
No, no, it was no avalanche, though YOU
may we'll look. And the bank followed
out so we'll just behind the corner, and
the tree just above which one could
slip behind so easily if he was not alone.
Ay and where's the rock that stood
there %
This speech was uttered with such
strange gestures that feared the good
old lady was wandering in her mind
The look of the place evidently affected
her, and | was not sorry to move on q
little briskly. She trudged after me,
but still continued her mutterings ]
could hear her broken phrases, such as,
dts in the stream nov; you can tell
it from all the rest of them the thun.
der it made; and the crash : but you
heard his cry above it,
My curiosity was rouse1, and | ques
toned the cid woman but nothing was
TO be got from her directly. She par.
ried my leading question with a skill
that surprised me, and all the time she
pretended to an ignorance which con,
trasted oddly with her former mutter.
ines. So [ turned the conversation, Oh
rather allowed her to turn it.
"That's my village" she remarked
as we passed few struggling houses at
great height ''That's my house,
pointing to the dreariest and most des
olate among them.
~ here is your husband -
80, he's dead this many year
"Any children -
cay. size said stopping short; "a.
fac lad as any in the country. He's
to be married next week to the rrettiest
girl in Zell."
I congratulated her, and resolved tc
add small sum to her hire for the
young couple.
cay" she repeated, "the prettiest
girl in Zell She wouldn't have the
woodcutter, | saw him stamp and sweal
when he met them together 4 bad
lot, bad lot But they're to be
married next week, and he can't pre-
vent it
The pro pect Of her sons marriage
filed the old lady with slch pleasant
thoughts that she sang the rest of the
way. When she took leave of HE
gave her trife for the bridal pair, aud
she shook my hand SO warmly that
felt had made friend. l carried my
kDapsack into the great chamber of the
small inn at Gerlos with a light heart
and forgot my fatigue and the small
chance of accommodation before me in
the joy | had caused.
Twas soon reminded ofthc smalness OF
the house by the embarrassed looks of the
Kellnerinn. She asked me if | wanted
to sleep there, and on my answering
that did she kept silence. Then ii
came out that there was but one bed
room in the house, and one of the beds
in it (there were four Of them) was al
ready occupied Did the Kelnerinn
know the person who occupied it
Yes, she knew him perfectly he was
the priest of Zell But then she looked
still more embarrassed, implying tha,
she did not know me- | might be will
ling to sleep in the same room with the
priest, bat would he be willing to sleep
with ME l might accept her assurance
of his respectability, but who would
assure him of mine?
This knotty point was settled by the
production of my passport L believe
the neat leather case an the gilt let
tering had more effect on the landlord
and waitress than the arms and sigma ure
which were not so carefully scrutinized.
While was at my supper my future
companion came in, and hearing that
we were to share the bedroom asked
leave to share my table.
Of course the conversation turned on
the road | bad taken that day. The
priest knew it well. Some of his duties
led him that way almost every week
He was good walker, thanks to con-
slant exercise; and the trunks of trees
which had worried me so easily were as
familiar to him as his own staircase.
Yet be could not say that he liked the
road. 1t was not the gloom or the
loneliness he objected to, for tie stations
Of the cross were painted at Intervals
but ever since that fearful murder
"What murder ?'' / exclaimed.
"Do you not know the story p he
asked. Il thought no one could pass
without hearing of it. Did you not
notice. a sharp turn in the path"
"With a hollow. place and slide
down to the water, like. the, track of an
.yoI,ncha 7'I sold interruntinr him