Long
after the strange caravan had vanished in the
twilight, the children stood gazing up into the
empty bell-tower.
It was near midnight, when Lage stood at the
steep, rocky wall in the forest; the men were
laboring to hoist the church-bell up to a staunch
cross-beam between two mighty fir-trees, and
in the weird light of their torches, the wild
surroundings looked wilder and more fantastic.
Anon, the muffled noise and bustle of the work
being at an end, the laborers withdrew, and a
strange, feverish silence seemed to brood over
the forest. Lage took a step forward, and
seized the bell-rope; the clear, conquering toll
of the metal rung solemnly through the silence,
and from the rocks, the earth, and the tree-
tops, rose a fierce chorus of howls, groans, and
screams. All night the ringing continued; the
old trees swayed to and fro, creaked, and
groaned, the roots loosened their holds in the
fissures of the rock, and the bushy crowns
bowed low under their unwonted burden.
It was well-nigh morn, but the dense fog still
brooded over the woods, and it was dark as
night. Lage was sitting on the ground, his
head leaning on both his elbows; at his side lay
the flickering torch, and the huge bell hung
dumb overhead. In the dark he felt a hand
touch his shoulder; had it happened only a few
hours before, he would have shuddered; now
the physical sensation hardly communicated
itself to his mind, or, if it did, had no power to
rouse him from his dead, hopeless apathy.
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