The clear, mild, June day was near its close; the sun had set; a crimson glow still lingered about the loftiest mountain-tops. All the other heights were lightly veiled in blue mists, while the valleys lay in deep shadow.
High above the forests which clothed the foot of the Wolkenstein, where the projecting cliff's of the huge mountain began their rise, there was a smooth, green meadow, whereon stood a low hut. It was usually very lonely up here, and seldom visited by strangers, since the ascent of the Wolkenstein was deemed impossible, but to-day it was enlivened by an unwonted stir and bustle. A huge wood-pile had been built upon the spacious meadow, many an ancient pine and hemlock having contributed to its erection. Gigantic logs of wood, dry branches, old roots, towered high in air. The bale-fire on the Wolkenstein was always one of the largest, and gleamed far and wide abroad over the country, for was it not lighted upon the legendary throne of the entire range, at the very feet of the Mountain-Sprite?
Around the pile was assembled a circle of mountaineers, mostly shepherds and woodsmen, with girls among them from the neighbouring alms, all powerful, sunburned figures, who lived up on the heights in sunshine and storm all through the summer, descending into the valley only when autumn reigned there. All were in merry mood: there were endless shouts and laughter; for people who worked hard day after day, and whose monotonous existence was rarely interrupted by any relaxation, the old popular festival was a joyous one.
To-day, however, they were not entirely left to themselves; there was a little group of spectators who had taken up a position on one side upon a low eminence. This was an unaccustomed sight for the mountaineers, and under other circumstances would have been an unwelcome one, for on such occasions they liked to feel themselves undisputed lords of their domain. But the young lady sitting on the mossy stone was no stranger among them, nor was the huge lion-like dog at her feet. The two had lived among these mountains for years, in old Wolkenstein Court, not a stone of which was now standing. True, the wild, joyous child of those days had grown to be a grand young lady and lived in the fine Nordheim villa, which was nothing short of a fairy castle in their eyes, but the Fräulein came among them just as she used to do, and talked with them in their patois as of old; no one dreamed of thinking her a stranger.