the mountain."

The senator and his wife did not detain him, and when the court-yard gate
had closed upon him a great stillness reigned in Petrus' sitting-room.
Dorothea leaned far back in her seat and sat looking in her lap while the
tears rolled over her cheeks; Marthana held her hand and stroked it, and
the senator stepped to the window and sighed deeply as he looked down
into the dark court. Sorrow lay on all their hearts like a heavy leaden
burden. All was still in the spacious room, only now and then a loud,
long-drawn cry of the wailing women rang through the quiet night and
reached them through the open window; it was a heavy hour, rich in vain,
but silent self-accusation, in anxiety, and short prayers; poor in hope
or consolation.

Presently Petrus heaved a deep sigh, and Dorothea rose to go up to him
and to say to him some sincere word of affection; but just then the dogs
in the yard barked, and the agonized father said softly--in deep
dejection, and prepared for the worst:

"Most likely it is they."

The deaconess pressed his hand in hers, but drew back when a light tap
was heard at the court-yard gate. "It is not Jethro and Antonius." said
Petrus, "they have a key."

Marthana had gone up to him, and she clung to him as he leaned far out of
the window and called to whoever it was that had tapped:

"Who is that knocking?"