Year: 1871

one was following her; there was Fritz,
his hat over his eyes, still sleeping in
the middle of the green meadow. Fried
land, too, and the cattle under their
tree.


Further of still she saw the village,
the river, the roof of the house, round
which the pigeons were flying, distance
making them look as small as swallows;
she saw the winding street, and the red
petticoats of some peasant women walk
| ing it; she saw the little moss grown
church in which the good Cure Mix
Iausse had baptised and afterward con-
frmed her in her Christian faith. Then
turning towards the mountains, she
gazed at the numberless spires of the
frs, crowded closely together on the
slopes of the narrow valleys, like the
blades of grass in the fields.


AS she contemplated this grand view,
the young Gypsy felt her chest dilate,
her heart beat with an unknown force,
and resuming her course, she darted in
to a crevice carpeted with moss and
ferns, in order to reach the herdsman's
path across the woods.


Her whole soul, her savage nature,
flashed out in her expression in. a strange
way. She seemed transfgured; with
her little hands she clung to the ivy,
and with her feet to the assures of the
rocks.


She soon set off again down the other
slope of the mountain, running, bound
ing along, sometimes stopping sudden
ly and looking at some obiect-a tree, a
ravine, an isolated pool, a patch of
sweet-smelling grasses-as if stupefied.


Although she did not remember ever
having seen these thickets, these cop
pices, these heaths, at each turn of the
path she said to herself: 'T knewit! the
tree was here-the rock there-the tor
rent beloww


Although a thousand strange remem-
berances, like dreams came into her
mind, she did not understand them,
could not explain them to herself. She
had not yet said to herself: What Fritz
and the rest like I do not care for; the
village, the meadow, the farm, fruit
trees in the orchard, COWS to give milk,
hens to lay eggs, provisions in the barn
and the cellar, and a warm room in
winter-these things make them happy,
but as for me, don't want all this; for
I am little savage, a regular savage
I was born in the woods, like the squir-
rel on the oak, the hawk on the rock,
the thrush on the fir tree.' No, she
had never reasoned thus, instinct alone
guided her; driven by this strange i'm
pulse, at sunset she reached the plateau
of Kohl-Platz, which is the place where
the Gypsies who are going from Alsace
to Lorraine usually stop to pass the
night, and hang up their pot in the mid
die Of the heath.


Tired out, her feet all bruised, her lit
tie red petticoat torn by the brambles,
Myrtle sat down at the foot of an oak.


For long time she remained notion
less, staring into space, listening to
the roar of the wind among the tall fir
trees, happy to feel herself alone in this
solitude.


Night was coming on. Myriads of
stars sparkled in the sombre depths of
the sky; the moon rose and the few
birch trees scattered on the sides of the
hill caught its silver rays.


Sleep began to Overtake the young
Gypsy; her head was dropping, when
suddenly she was awakened by shouts
far off in the woods.


Listening attentively, she recognized
the voices: Bremen, Fritz and all the
farm people were in pursuit of her.


Without moments hesitation Myr-
tie darted deeper into the forest, and
only stopped running from time to time
that she might listen again. At last
the shouts grew fainter.


Soon she heard nothing but the rapid
beating of her heart, and she slackened
her pace.


At last, very late, when the moon had
set, and she was quite worn out with
fatigue, she sank down among the
heather and fell into deep sleep. She
was now twelve miles from Dosenheim,
near the source of the Zinsel; she felt
sure that Bremen wo'd not extend his
search as far as that.


1t was broad dGglight when Myrtle
awoke to find herself alone on the Har-
berg, under an old fir tree covered with
moss. A thrush was singing over her
head, another was answering it from
long distance, far off in the valley.


The morning breeze was stirring the
leaves, but the air, already warm, was
laden with a thousand perfumes of ivy,
MOSES and wild honeysuckle. The
young Gypsy opened her eyes quite
amazed; she looked about her, and then
remembering that she should not hear
Catharine calling out, myrtle! where
are you, wretched child?n she smiled
and listened to the song of the thrush.


She heard the murmuring of spring
close TO her, and found she had only to
turn her head to see the fresh water
rushing along the Gock and spreading it.
self out on the grass. An arbutus tree,
laden with red berries, hung over the
rock beneath it grew a splendid aco-
mite, with violet flowers spotted with
white.


Myrtle was thirsty, but she felt 50
lazy, and so eOntented to lie there list
ening to the sound of the water and the
singing Of the thrush that she was dis