"Such a beast, has the intelligence of a dozen men, and can read a person's will, in his eyes," said the herdsman. "Else, I should think you a saint, whom the inhabitants of the wilderness obey."
Weighing the paws of the dead bear in his hand, he continued: "Hurrah! that will be a repast. These we will eat together next Sunday, with a dainty salad, made of Alpine herbs. The meat will be ample provision for us through the winter, and for the skin we will cast lots."
Whilst they were dragging the victim of the avalanche up to the Wildkirchlein, Benedicta sang:
"And he who digs for snow-drops, And whom fortune will befriend, Will by chance dig a bear out, And perhaps two, in the end."
The snow had been a mere soft sleet, which soon melted again. Summer came back once more to the mountains with heart-stirring warmth, and a peaceful Sabbath-quiet lay over the highlands. Ekkehard had regaled himself with the bear's paws at dinner in company with the herdsman and his daughter. It was a savoury dish, coarse, but strengthening, and well suited for inhabitants of the mountains. Then he mounted the top of the Ebenalp, and threw himself into the fragrant grass, from whence he looked up at the blue sky, enjoying his recovered health.
Benedicta's goats were grazing around him, and he could hear how the juicy Alpine-grass was greedily munched between their sharp teeth. Restless clouds drifted along the hillsides; and on a piece of white lime-stone, with her face towards the Säntis, sat Benedicta. She was playing on a queer sort of a flute. It was a simple and melodious air; like a voice from the days of youth. With two wooden milk-spoons in her left hand she beat time. She was a proficient in this art, and her father would often say with regret: "Tis really a pity! She deserved to be called Benedictus, as she would have made a capital herdsman."
When the rythmical air came to an end, she gave a loud shout in the direction of the neighbouring alp, upon which the soft tones of an Alpine horn were heard. Her sweetheart, the herdsman on the Klus stood under the dwarf fir-tree, blowing the _ranz des vaches_,--that strange, primitive music, which unlike any other melody, seems at first a mere humming sound, which an imprisoned bumble-bee, searching for an outlet, might produce, and that by-and-by, rises and swells into that wondrous song of longing, love, and home-sickness, creeping into the very heart's core; filling it either with rapturous joy, or making it almost break with sorrow.