The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked
over the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through
the still, cold air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of
the road grew longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch,
dropped behind the tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it
had been a bird of prey waiting for this sign to swoop down upon
the world.
"Father," said Gregor to the leader, "surely this day's march is
done. It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward
now, we cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the
word of the psalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in
the legs of a man?"
Winfried laughed. "Nay, my son Gregor," said he, "thou hast
tripped, even now, upon thy text. For David said only, 'I take no
pleasure in the legs of a man.' And so say I, for I am not minded
to spare thy legs or mine, until we come farther on our way, and
do what must be done this night. Draw the belt tighter, my son,
and hew me out this tree that is fallen across the road, for our
campground is not here."
The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and
while the soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the
snow flew from the bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to
his followers in a cheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine.
Pages:
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29