"Let me get him for you, Kindchen," he volunteered.
The good-fellowship in his voice impressed her far more than the humble state of his dress. But she smiled and shook her head.
"It is dangerous," she affirmed. "It will be wiser to wait. In a little while he will come down of his own accord."
"Bah!" cried the old man. "It is nothing; I am a mountaineer."
In spite of his weariness, he proved himself to be a dexterous climber. Foot by foot he crawled up the side of the huge stone. A slip, and his life would not have been worth one of the floating feathers. The gander saw him coming and stirred uneasily. Nearer and nearer came this human spider. The gander flapped its wings, but hesitated to take the leap. Instantly a brown hand shot up and caught the scaly yellow legs. There was much squawking on the way down, but when his gandership saw his more tractable brothers and sisters peacefully waddling up the road, he subsided and took his place in the ranks without more ado.
"You are a brave man, Herr." There was admiration in the girl's eyes.
"To court danger and to overcome obstacles is a part of my regular business. I do not know what giddiness is. You are welcome to the service. It is a long walk from the valley."
"I have walked it many times this summer. But this is the last day. To-morrow I sell the geese in the market to the hotels. They have all fine livers"--lightly touching a goose with her willow stick.
"What, the hotels?"--humorously.
"No, no, my geese!"
"What was that song you were singing before the horses came up?"
"That? It was from the poet Heine"--simply.
He stared at her with a rudeness not at all intentional.
"Heine? Can you read?"
"Yes, Herr."
The other walked along beside her in silence. After all, why not? Why should he be surprised? From one end of the world to the other printer's ink was spreading and bringing light. But a goose-girl who read Heine!
"And the music?" he inquired presently.
"That is mine"--with the first sign of diffidence. "Melodies are always running through my head. Sometimes they make me forget things I ought to remember."
"Your own music? An impresario will be discovering you some fine day, and your fortune will be made."
The light irony did not escape her. "I am only a goose-girl."
He felt disarmed. "What is your name?"
"Gretchen."
"What else?"
"Nothing else"--wistfully. "I never knew any father or mother."
"So?" This was easier for the other to understand. "But who taught you to read?"