That was a mournful journey on which the youth and his aged foster-father went towards the Rocks of the Moon, through the wild tangled paths of the snow-clad valleys.

Rolf from time to time sang some verses of hymns, in which comfort and peace were promised to the penitent sinner, and Sintram thanked him for them with looks of grateful sadness.

Neither of them spoke a word else.
At length, when the dawn of day was approaching, Sintram broke silence by saying, "Who are those two sitting yonder by the frozen stream--a tall man and a little one?
Their own wild hearts must have driven them also forth into the wilderness.

Rolf, dost thou know them?
The sight of them makes me shudder." "Sir," answered the old man, "your disturbed mind deceives you.

There stands a lofty fir-tree, and the old weather-beaten stump of an oak, half-covered with snow, which gives them a somewhat strange appearance.
There are no men sitting yonder." "But, Rolf, look there! look again carefully! Now they move, they whisper together." "Sir, the morning breeze moves the branches, and whistles in the sharp pine-leaves and in the yellow oak-leaves, and rustles the crisp snow." "Rolf, now they are both coming towards us.