lenger of the year before. And when the winter had covered the lower hills with white, it was said that traces of strange feet were seen about the little chapel of Our Lady of the Snow.
Howbeit, Clothilde neglected not one of the duties which belonged to her in the household of her father, and her willing heart and hand forbade that either the kind old herdsman or the curé should speak aught ill to her, or forbid her the mountain rambles.
The old mother of Conrad grew frighted, indeed, by the stories of the villagers, and prayed her son to give up all thought of the strange Clothilde, and to marry a maiden whose heart was of warmer blood, and who kept no league with the Evil One. But Conrad only the more resolutely followed the bent of his will, and schooled himself for the coming trial. If they talked to him of the stranger, he vowed with a fearful oath, that, be he who he might, he would dare him to sharper conflict than that of the year before.
So, at length, the month and the day drew near again. It was early spring-time. The wasting snows still whitened the edges of the fields which hung upon the slopes of the mountain. The meadow of the fête had lost the last traces of winter, and a fresh green sod, with sprinkled daisies, glittered under the dew and the sunlight.
Clothilde again was robed with care, and when the old herdsman looked on her, under the wreath she had woven out by his cottage flowers, he forgave her all he had thought of her tie to the spirit-world, and clasped her to his heart—"his own, his good Clothilde!"
On the day before the fête, there had been heavy rain; and the herdsmen from the heights reported that the winter snows were loosening, and would soon come down, after which would be broad summer and the ripening of the crops.
Scarce a villager was away from the wrestling-ground; for all had heard of Clothilde, and of the new and strange comer who had challenged the pride of the valley, and had disappeared—none knew whither.
Was Conrad Friedland to lose again his guerdon?
The games went on, with the old man, the father of Clothilde, looking on timidly, and the good curé holding his accustomed place beside him. There were young herdsmen who appeared this year,
