Night came. The stars broke out by thousands in the purple depths of the
autumn sky. The moon rose and silvered with soft light the white stems of
the birch-trees, which hung in graceful groups along the mountain sides.
The young gipsy was beginning to yield to sleep when cries in the
distance roused her into an impulse to fly.
Hark! She knows the voices! They are those of Bremer, Fritz, and all the
people of the farm searching for her!
Then, without a moment's hesitation, Myrtle flew, light as a roe, farther
into the forest, stopping only at long intervals to listen attentively
and anxiously.
The cries died away in the distance, and soon the only sound she could
hear was the loud beating of her own heart, and she went on her way at a
less rapid pace.
Very late, when the moon's rays became less brilliant, unable to stand
out against her fatigue any longer, she sank down on the heath and fell
fast asleep.
She was four leagues from Dosenheim, near the source of the Zinzel.
Bremer was not likely to come so far to look for her.
CHAPTER II.
It was broad daylight when Myrtle awoke amidst the deep solitudes of the
Schlossberg, beneath an old fir-tree overgrown with moss and lichen.
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