THE SILVER DIGGER.

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BY J. TOPHAM EVANS.

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“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Piet Albrecht, “and so old Chriss Mienckel is going to be married at last, and to pretty Barbara Mullerhorn, the violet of the forest! Your gold and silver are the best suitors after all! Give me a purse of yellow pieces before all the rifles of the mountain. What sayest thou, comrade,” continued he, clapping upon the back a young man, who sat next to him, “dost thou not think that old Mullerhorn, the gold-lover, would have fancied thee much better, if thou hadst carried more metal in thy pouch than upon thy shoulder?”

“I pray thee, Piet,” responded the young man, “keep thy scurvy jests to thyself. My soul is far too heavy for mirth.”

“Holy Saint Nicholas!” said Piet, “he thinks of little Barbara! Well, courage, comrade, and drink somewhat of this flask. Right Schiedam, and full old, I warrant thee. What, not a drop? Well, here’s to thee, then.”

“Aye,” said a tall, dark visaged man, attired in a hunter’s garb, “aye! these love sick spirits are hardly worth the trouble of enlivening. Once was Adolf the gayest hunter in the hills; but of late, his courage is as dull as a hare’s, and all for a green girl, whose old schelm of a father loves his own broad pieces too well, to bestow her upon a ranger of the free woods.”

“Peace, Franz Rudenfranck,” said the youth; “I will hear such words, not even from thee. If old Mullerhorn continues to refuse me, I will leave these, my native mountains, and wander in some far distant land, hopeless and broken hearted.”

“Pshaw,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “thou art far too young for despair as yet. Throw thine ill-humor to the fiend, whence it came. There are other lasses as fair as Barbara Mullerhorn, and, by my faith, not so difficult to obtain. Therefore, fill comrades, let us pass a health to the recovery of Adolf’s heart, and a more favorable issue to his passion.”

And the cup went gaily round, amid the shouts of the revellers.

Adolf Westerbok had been the gayest huntsman of the F——g district, and the truest and merriest lad in the mountain, until an accidental meeting with Barbara Mullerhorn at a dance, had entirely changed the current of his feelings. It is an old story, and a much hackneyed one, that of love. Let us spare the description. Suffice it to say that Adolf and Barbara met often, and that a mutual affection subsisted between them.

Adolf proposed himself to old Mullerhorn, and demanded Barbara in marriage. But old Philip Mullerhorn, a rude, churlish, and avaricious farmer, scornfully rejected the proffer of Adolf, and forbade him any farther interview with Barbara, alleging, as the grounds of his disinclination, the poverty of the hunter. Barbara was no less afflicted than Adolf. Still, meetings between them were contrived. At last, on the very evening, upon which the conversation, narrated above, took place, Barbara informed her distracted lover, that her father had announced to her his intention of bestowing her in marriage upon Chriss Mienckel, an elderly widower, whose share of this world’s goods was ample enough to attract the covetous regards of old Philip Mullerhorn.

Burning with rage, and filled with tumultuous thoughts, Adolf quitted Barbara, after bestowing upon her a long embrace, and repaired to the inn of the hamlet, in hopes of finding Franz Rudenfranck, a huntsman, who had professed a singular attachment for him, and who had signalised this attachment by many personal proofs of friendship.

The news of old Mienckel’s success had reached the hamlet before him, and he had not been seated many minutes, before Piet Albrecht, the professed joker of the village, began to rally him upon the subject. Piet had already irritated Adolf in no small measure; but the lover had thus far concealed his feelings.

“Ha! ha!” exclaimed Piet, gaily, “to think that the old, shrivelled widower of threescore should outcharm the youth of twenty! If I had been Adolf Westerbok, I don’t think that Chriss would have carried matters so, and I should have worn the wedding ribbon in spite of his ducats. But there’s no accounting for tastes, eh? What say you, comrades?”

The hunters laughed; and Adolf, annoyed at length beyond endurance, rejoined in somewhat of a surly tone; to which Piet answered more jestingly than before.

“Silence, fool!” said Rudenfranck, now interfering, “thou hast neither wit nor manners, and I should but serve thee rightly, did I lay my ramrod soundly over thy shoulders.”

Piet shrank back abashed, for there was that expression upon the brow of Rudenfranck that few cared to see, and fewer to withstand. The hunters were silent for a moment, but one of them, at last, answered Rudenfranck.

“That would I fain see, Franz Rudenfranck. Keep thy ramrod for thy hound; for, by the holy apostles, if thou layest the weight of thy finger upon Piet, I will try whether my bullet or thy skin proves the harder, albeit some say no lead can harm thee.”

“Peace, Hans Veltenmayer,” rejoined Rudenfranck. “If thou wert wise, which any fool may plainly perceive thou art not, thou wouldest chain that unruly tongue within thine ugly mouth, or keep those threats for thy wife, who, if some say aright, would receive them so kindly, as to repay thee, not in words, but in heavier coin. Tush man, never lift thy rifle at me.”

He turned sharply upon the hunter, who had seized his rifle and was levelling it toward him; wrested it from his hand, and by a slight motion, cast him rudely upon the ground. Veltenmayer rose, and slunk among his laughing companions, muttering.

“Come, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, “I know what thou wouldst have. Leave we this merry company, and go thou with me to my hut.”

They left the inn, and plunged deep into the forest.