He seemed almost crazed at the uncertainty which shrouded the fate of the girl he loved so dearly, and he vainly attempted to discover some solution of the awful mystery.
As the silent party were crossing the bridge, they stopped for a temporary rest before proceeding further on their way, and indulged in subdued conversation upon the mystery which thus far had defied their efforts to solve.
Suddenly they were startled by an exclamation from one of their number, who, on looking casually over the railing into the stream beneath, discovered in the bright reflection of the brilliant moon, the figure of the murdered girl lying in the shallow water.

With an agonizing cry Henry sprang into the river, and in a few moments clasped the lifeless body in his strong arms and bore her to the shore.
It was too true--the pale, beautiful features that met their frightened gaze were none other than those of the village beauty--Emerence, and a stillness like that of death fell upon the assembly as they looked upon her.
At first it was supposed that she had been accidentally drowned, but upon the lights being brought, and that cruel blow upon the head being discovered, each one looked at the other, and the words burst almost simultaneously from the lips of all: "_Nat Toner!_" After the first cry which escaped him, Henry Schulte never spoke again during that painful time, but with reverent hands he smoothed the wet drapery about her shapely limbs, and closed the great staring eyes, which, when he last looked upon them, were full of love, and hope, and happiness--and then, as the men gathered up the fair form and bore it to her once happy home, he followed silently, and with faltering steps.
It had needed no words from the villagers to tell him of the author of this crime.

Before they had spoken, his own mind had discovered the murderer, and he had resolved upon the course to be pursued, and when, immediately after the sad funeral rites had been performed, and the body of the fair young Emerence had been placed in the ground, Henry disappeared from the village, one and all felt that the mission he had gone upon was a righteous one, and no one disputed his right to go.
At the end of a month he returned, but with a face so changed that he was scarcely recognized.

The happy light was gone forever from his eyes, and the hard stern lines about the mouth told the sad story of long suffering, and of a harsh judgment that had been fulfilled.
No one questioned him upon his journey, or its result, and he gave no explanations, but when some weeks later a party of hunters in the forests on the mountains, near Werne, discovered the lifeless body of Nat Toner, with his pistol by his side, and a bullet-hole through the low, white forehead, the villagers felt that Henry's search had not been in vain, or his revenge incomplete.
To this day no one can tell, whether, suffering the pangs of remorse, the miserable man had put an end to his own life, or whether the wound in the low, white forehead was planted there by the man whom he had so dreadfully wronged.
No inquiries were made, however, and as time passed on, the history of Nat Toner passed out of the conversations of the simple village-folk, and, save as it was occasionally recalled by some romantic and unfortunate event abroad, was never mentioned.
To Henry Schulte the record of that sad night was always present, and was never effaced from his memory.

The change that was wrought in him was apparent to all.