and the ways of it had no more terror for him than these hills
here used to have for the bold heart of Kaiser Max. Indeed, all he
thought of was Katte,--Katte and the lambs. He knew the way that the
sheep-tracks ran; the sheep could not climb so high as the goats; and he
knew, too, that little Stefan could not climb so high as he. So he began
his search low down upon Martinswand.

After midnight the cold increased; there were snow-clouds hanging near,
and they opened over his head, and the soft snow came flying along. For
himself he did not mind it, but alas for the lambs!--if it covered them,
how would he find them? And if they slept in it, they were dead.

It was bleak and bare on the mountain-side, though there were still
patches of grass such as the flocks liked, that had grown since the hay
was cut. The frost of the night made the stone slippery, and even the
irons gripped it with difficulty; and there was a strong wind rising
like a giant's breath, and blowing his small horn lantern to and fro.

Now and then he quaked a little with fear,--not fear of the night or the
mountains, but of strange spirits and dwarfs and goblins of ill repute,
said to haunt Martinswand after nightfall. Old women had told him of
such things, though the priest always said that they were only foolish
tales, there being nothing on God's earth wicked save men and women who
had not clean hearts and hands. Findelkind believed the priest; still,
all alone on the side of the mountain with the snowflakes flying around
him, he felt a nervous thrill that made him tremble and almost turn
backward. Almost, but not quite; for he thought of Katte and the poor
little lambs lost--and perhaps dead--through his fault.

The path went zigzag and was very steep; the Arolla pines swayed their
boughs in his face; stones that lay in his path unseen in the gloom
made him stumble. Now and then a large bird of the night flew by with a
rushing sound; the air grew so cold that all Martinswand might have
been turning to one huge glacier. All at once he heard through the
stillness--for there is nothing so still as a mountainside in snow--a
little pitiful bleat. All his terrors vanished; all his memories of
ghost-tales passed away; his heart gave a leap of joy; he was sure it
was the cry of the lambs. He stopped to listen more surely. He was now
many score of feet above the level of his home and of Zirl; he was, as
nearly as he could judge, half-way as high as where t