the lambs from sunset to nightfall. All alone he began the
ascent.

Time and again, in the glad spring-time and the fresh summer
weather, he had driven his flock upwards to eat the grass that
grew, in the clefts of the rocks and on the broad green alps. The
sheep could not climb to the highest points; but the goats did,
and he with them. Time and again he had lain on his back in these
uppermost heights, with the lower clouds behind him and the black
wings of the birds and the crows almost touching his forehead, as
he lay gazing up into the blue depth of the sky, and dreaming,
dreaming, dreaming.

He would never dream any more now, he thought to himself. His
dreams had cost Katte her lambs, and the world of the dead
Findelkind was gone for ever: gone were all the heroes and
knights; gone all the faith and the force; gone every one who
cared for the dear Christ and the poor in pain.

The bells of Zirl were ringing midnight. Findelkind heard, and
wondered that only two hours had gone by since his mother had
kissed him in his bed. It seemed to him as if long, long nights
had rolled away, and he had lived a hundred years.

He did not feel any fear of the dark calm night, lit now and
then by silvery gleams of moon and stars. The mountain was his
old familiar friend, 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