THE WILD HUNTSMAN

I

In those happy days of youth, when the sky appears of a deeper blue and the foliage of a more vivid green, when mountain-torrents rush down with greater impetuosity and noise, when lakes are calmer, and their limpid depths more clear; when Nature is clothed in unspeakable grace, and all things sing to us in our hearts, and whisper of love, of art, of poetry – in that happy time I wandered alone through the grand old forest of Hundsrück.

I wandered from town to town, from one forester’s house to the next; singing, whistling, looking about me, without any definite object; fancy-led, seeking ever a deeper depth still more distant and more leafy, where no sound but the whisperings of the wind and the music of trees could ever reach me.

One morning I stepped out before daylight from the door of the Swan hostelry at Pirmasens to cross the wooded hills of Rothalps to the hamlet of Wolfthal. The boots came to arouse me at two o’clock, as I had requested; for towards the end of August it is best to travel at night, as the heat during the day, concentrating at the bottom of the gorges, becomes insupportable.

Picture me, then, on the way at night, my hunting-jacket buttoned closely to my figure, my knapsack depending from my shoulders, my stick in my hand. I walked at a good pace. Vines succeeded to vines, hemp-fields to hemp-fields; then came fir-trees, amongst which the darkened pathway wended; and the pale moon overhead seemed to plough an immense furrow of light beyond.

The excitement of the walk, the deep silence of the solitude, the twittering of a bird disturbed in its nest, the rapid passage through the trees of an early squirrel going to drink at a neighbouring spring, the stars glinting between the hills, the distant murmur of the water in the valley, the first clear notes from the thrush uttered from the topmost spray of the pine-tree, and crying to us that far, far away there was a streak of light, that the day was breaking, and at length the pale crepuscule, the first purple tint on the horizon, appeared across the dark coppices – these numerous impressions of the journey insensibly led up to the birth of the day.

About five o’clock I came out upon the other side of the Rothalps, nine miles from Pirmasens, into a narrow winding gorge.

I can always recall the sensation of freshness and delight with which I welcomed this retreat. Below me a little torrent, clear as crystal, rushed over its moss-grown stones; on the right, as far as the eye could reach, extended a forest of birch; and to the left, beneath the lofty pine-trees’ shade, the sandy path meandered to the deep roads.

Below the road the heather and the heaths sprang up with golden drops; still farther away some briars, and then a streak of water with its clustering green cresses.

Those who during their youth have had the happiness to light upon such a place in the forest depths, at that hour when Nature comes forth from her rosy bath and in her robe of sunshine, when the light plays amongst the foliage, and drops its golden tears into the untrodden depths, when the mosses, the honeysuckle, and all climbing plants burn incense in the shade, and mingle their perfumes under the canopy of the lofty palm-trees, when the parti-coloured tomtits hop from branch to branch in search of insects, when the thrush, the bullfinch, and the blackbird fly down to the rivulet and drink their fill, with wings outstretched over the tiny foaming falls, or the thieving jays, crossing above the trees in flocks, direct their flight towards the wild cherry-trees – at the hour, in short, when all Nature is animated, when everything is enjoying love, and light, and life – such people as those to whom I have referred alone can understand my ecstasy.

I seated myself upon the root of an ancient moss-grown oak, my stick resting idly between my knees; and there, for the space of an hour, I abandoned myself, child-like, to endless day-dreams.

By degrees the light increased; the humming of insects grew louder, while the melancholy notes of the cuckoos, repeated by the echoes, marked in a curious way the measure of the universal concert.

While I was thus meditating, a distant sharp note, skilfully modulated, struck upon my ear. From the moment of my arrival at this spot I had heard, without paying any attention to, this note; but so soon as I had distinguished it from the numerous forest noises I thought: ‘That is the note of a bird-catcher, his hut cannot be far away, and there must be some forester’s house close by.’

I arose and looked about me. Towards the left hand, in the direction of the rising ground, I quickly distinguished a penthouse roof whose dormer windows and white chimneys glistened amid the innumerable branches of the forest pines. The house was quite half an hour’s walk from my resting-place, but that did not prevent me saying aloud, ‘Thank Heaven!’

For it is no small matter, I may tell you, to know where to find a crust of bread and a flask of kirchenwasser. So I once again shouldered my knapsack, and cheerfully struck into the path which promised to lead me to the house.

For some few minutes longer the bird-catcher’s call continued its cheery notes; then, all of a sudden, it ceased. Towards seven o’clock the small birds would have finished their morning ‘grub’, and the day, waxing hotter and brighter, would discover the lurking enemy behind the thick leafy screen of his hiding-place; it was time to take up the birdlime.

All these thoughts passed through my mind as I continued to advance, regretting that I had not sooner resumed my journey, when about fifty or sixty paces to the left I caught sight of the bird-catcher, a fine old forester, tall, sinewy, and muscular, clad in a short blue blouse, an immense game-bag depending from his shoulder, the silver badge upon his chest, and the small peaked cap placed jauntily upon his head. He was in the act of taking up his nets, and at first I only caught sight of his broad back, his long muscular limbs arrayed in cloth gaiters reaching up above the knee beneath his blouse; but as he turned I perceived the wiry profile of a regular old huntsman, the grey eyes shaded by long lashes; a long white moustache shrouded the lips; snowy eyebrows, an honest profile, somewhat stem, yet with something of a thoughtful, even a rather ingenuous cast; but the silver-grey hair, and a certain indescribable look in the depths of the eyes, corrected the easy-going impression which struck one at first sight. And if the broad back was somewhat bent, the thin shoulders were so wide that one could not help feeling a certain respect for this fine old forester.

He moved about in all directions, sometimes in the light, sometimes in the shadow, stretching out a hand here, stooping there, perfectly at home. Resting upon my stick, I watched him narrowly, and thought what a capital subject for a picture he would make.

Having taken up his nets and twigs, and wrapped them carefully, he proceeded to string together by the beaks the birds he had captured, the smallest first, garland fashion. At length, having arranged them to his liking, he plunged them all into his game-bag; then swinging it upon his shoulders, he took up the great holly staff that was lying upon the ground beside him, and struck out towards the path.

Then for the first time he noticed me, and his face assumed an official expression consistent with his dress, but involuntarily his sternness disappeared, and his grey eyes beamed kindly upon me.

‘Ha, ha!’ he exclaimed in French, but with a curious German accentuation, ‘good morning, monsieur; how are you this morning? Is it to your taste?’

‘Yes, pretty well,’ I replied in the same language.

‘Ha, ha!’ said the brave fellow, ‘you are a Frenchman, then; I saw that at once!’ and he saluted like an old soldier. ‘Are you not a Frenchman?’ he added.

‘Well, not exactly, I come from Dusseldorf.’

‘Ah! from Dusseldorf; but it is all the same,’ he said, as he lapsed into the old German tongue; ‘you are a good fellow nevertheless.’

He placed his hand lightly upon my shoulder as he spoke.

‘You are en route early,’ he said.

‘Yes, I come from Pirmasens.’

‘It is nine good miles from here; you must have set out at three o’clock this morning.’

‘At two o’clock, but I halted for an hour in the dell yonder.’

‘Ah! yes, near the source of the Vellerst. And, if not impertinent, may I inquire your destination?’

‘My destination! Oh! I go anywhere. I walk about, look around me—’

‘You are a timber contractor, then?’

‘No, I am a painter.’

‘A painter – good. A capital profession that. Why you can make three or four crowns a day, and walk about with your hands in your pockets meanwhile. Painters have been here before. I have seen two or three in the last thirty years. It is a capital calling.’

We pursued our way towards the house together, he with bent back, stretching out his long limbs, while I came trudging after, congratulating myself on having pitched upon a resting-place. The sun was getting very warm, and the ascent was steep. At intervals long vistas opened out to the left, and mingled together in deep gorges; the blue distance trended down towards the Rhine, and beyond the hazy horizon mingled with the sky and passed into the infinite.

‘What a splendid country!’ I cried as I stood wrapped in contemplation of this wonderful panorama.

The old keeper stopped as I spoke; his piercing eyes took in the prospect, and he replied gravely: ‘That’s true! I have the most beautiful district of all the mountain as far as Neustadt. Every one who comes to see the country says so; even the ranger himself confesses as much. Now look yonder. Do you see the Losser descending between those rocks? Look at that white line – that is the foam. You must see that closer, sir. You should hear the roar of the cataract in the spring when the snows are melting; it is like thunder amongst the hills. Then look higher up; do you see the blossom of the heather and the broom? Well, there is the Valdhorn; the flowers are falling just now, but in the spring you would perceive a bouquet that rises to heaven. And if you are fond of curiosities, there is the Birckenstein; we must not forget that. All the learned people – for one or two such do come here during the year – never fail to go and read the old inscriptions upon the stones.’

‘It is a ruin, then?’

‘Yes; an old piece of wall upon a rock enveloped in nettles and brambles – a regular owl’s nest. For my own part, I like the Losser, the Krapenfelz, the Valdhorn; but as they say in France, every one has his own taste and colour. We have everything here, high, medium-sized, and young forest trees, brushwood and brambles, rocks, caverns, torrents, rivers—’

‘But no lakes,’ I said.

‘Lakes!’ he exclaimed. ‘No lakes! As if we had not just beyond the Losser a lake a league in circumference, dark and deep, surrounded by rocks and the giant pines of the Veierschloss! They call it The Lake of the Wild Huntsman!’

And he bent his head as if in reflection for some seconds. Then suddenly rousing himself, he resumed his route without uttering a word. It appeared to me that the old keeper so lately enraptured had suddenly struck upon a melancholy chord. I followed him musing. He, bending forward, wearing a pensive air, and learning on his great holly staff, took such long and vigorous strides that it seemed as if his limbs would burst through his blouse every moment!

The forester’s house came into sight between the trees in the midst of a verdant meadow. At the end of the valley the river could be perceived following the undulations of the hills; farther still in the gorge were clusters of fruit-trees, some tilled ground, a small garden surrounded by a low wall, and finally on a terrace having the wood for a background was the house of the old keeper – a white house, somewhat ancient in appearance, with three windows, and the door on the ground floor, four windows above with little diamond-shaped panes, and four others in the garrets amid the brown tiles of the roof.

Facing the wood in our direction was an old worm-eaten gallery with a carved balustrade, the winding staircase outside being fastened to the wall. A lattice trellis-work occupied two sides upon which the honeysuckles and vines clambered and hung back in festoons from the roof. Across the green sward the small black window-panes glittered in the shade. On the wall of the kitchen garden an old chanticleer was proudly strutting in the midst of his hens; upon the mossy roof a flock of pigeons were moving about; in the stream a number of ducks were swimming, and from the threshold we could have perceived the length of the sloping dell, the extensive valley, and the leafy forest shades as far as the eye could reach.

Nothing so calm and peaceable as this house, lost in the solitudes of the mountains, can be imagined; its very appearance touched one more than you might fancy, and made one feel inclined to live and die there – if possible.

Two old hounds ran out to welcome us. A young girl was hanging some linen out to dry upon the balustrade, and seeing the dogs running out, looked up. The old keeper smiled as he pressed forward.

‘You are at home here,’ I said.

‘Yes, this is my house.’

‘May I ask for a crust and a glass of wine?’

‘Of course, man, of course. If the keepers sent people away I wonder to what inn the travellers could go. You are right welcome, sir.’

At this moment we reached the gate in the palings of the little garden; the dogs jumped upon us, and the girl in the balcony waved her hand in welcome. At the end of the garden another gate gave us admission to the yard, and the keeper, turning to me, exclaimed in a joyous tone: ‘You are now at the house of Frantz Honeck, gamekeeper to the Grand Duke Ludwig. Come into the parlour. I will just get rid of my game-bag, take off my gaiters, and join you there.’

We traversed a narrow passage. Talking as we advanced, the keeper pushed open the door of a low square whitewashed room, furnished with beechwood chairs, having a heart-shaped ornament cut in the back of each, a high walnut-wood press, with glittering hinges and rounded feet, and at the farther end was an old Nuremberg clock. In the corner to the right stood the stove, and by the lattice-windows was a firwood table; these made up the furniture of the room. On the table were a small loaf of bread and two glasses.

‘Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,’ said the old keeper. ‘I will return in a few moments.’

He left the room as he spoke.

I heard him enter the next room. Then, delighted to find myself in such good quarters, I took off my great-coat. The dogs stretched themselves on the floor.

‘Louise! Louise!’ cried out old Frantz.

The young girl passed the windows, and her pretty rosy face put aside the plants to look into the room. I bowed to her. She blushed, and hastily retired.

‘Louise!’ cried the old man again.

‘I am here, grandfather, I am here,’ she replied gently as she came into the passage.

Then I could not help hearing their conversation.

‘There is a traveller come, a fine lad; he will breakfast here. Go and draw a flask of white wine, and put on two plates.’

‘Yes, grandfather.’

‘Go and fetch my woollen jacket and my sabots. The birds have turned out well this morning; the young man comes from the Swan at Pirmasens. When Caspar returns send him in.’

‘He is tending the cows, grandfather, shall I call him?’

‘No, an hour hence will do.’

Every word reached me distinctly. Outside dogs barked, hens cackled, the leaves rustled gently in the breeze; everything was cheerful, fresh, and green.

I placed my knapsack upon the table and sat down thinking of the happiness of living in such a place without any care beyond the daily work.

‘What a life!’ I thought. ‘One can breathe freely here. This old Frantz is as tough as an oak notwithstanding his seventy years. And what a charming little girl his granddaughter is!’

I had scarcely finished these reflections when the old man, clad in his knitted vest and his iron-tipped sabots, came in laughing, and cried out: ‘Here I am. I have finished my morning’s work. I was up and about before you, sir; at four o’clock I had gone my round of the felled timber. Now we are going to rest ourselves, you and I; take a quiet glass and smoke another pipe – pipes again! But tell me, do you wish to change? You can go up to my room.’

‘Thank you, Père Frantz, I have need of nothing but a little rest.’

This title of Père Frantz appeared to please the old man; his cheeks betrayed a smile.

‘’Tis true that my name is Frantz,’ he said, ‘and I am old enough to be your father – ay, your grandfather. But may I ask your age?’

‘I am nearly twenty-two.’

At this moment the little Louise entered, carrying a flask of white wine in one hand, and in the other some cheese, upon a beautiful specimen of Delft ware, ornamented with red flowers. Frantz ceased to speak as she came in, thinking, perhaps, it is better to hold his tongue about age in the presence of his granddaughter.

Louise was about sixteen years of age; she was fair as an ear of corn, of good height and figure. Her forehead was high, her eyes were blue, her nose straight, with a tendency to turn up at the end, with delicate nostrils; her curving lips were as fresh as two cherries, and she was shy and retiring. She wore a dress of blue cloth striped with white, braced-up Hundsrück fashion. The sleeves of her dress scarcely descended below the elbow, and left her round arms displayed, though somewhat burnt by exposure in the open air. One cannot imagine a creature more soft and gentle or more artless, and I am persuaded that the maidens of Berlin, Vienna, or elsewhere, would have lost by the comparison.

Père Frantz, seated at the end of the table, appeared very proud of her. Louise placed the cheese and the flask upon the table without a word. I was quite silent – dreaming. Louise having left the room, quickly returned with two plates, beautifully clean, and two knives. She then appeared about to leave us, but her grandfather, raising his voice, said: ‘Remain here, Louise; remain here, or they will say you are afraid to meet this youth. He is a fine young fellow too. Ha! what is your name? I never thought of asking your before.’

‘My name is Théodore Richter.’

‘Well, then, Monsieur Théodore, if you feel so disposed, help yourself.’

He attacked the cheese as he spoke. Louise sat down timidly near the stove, sending now and then a quick glance in our direction.

‘Yes, he is a painter,’ continued old Honeck, as he went on eating; ‘and if you would not mind our seeing your pictures it will give us great pleasure, will it not, Louise?’

‘Oh, yes, grandfather,’ she replied; ‘I have never seen any.’

For some moments I had been cogitating how best I could propose to remain in the neighbourhood and study the environs, but I did not know how to broach this delicate subject. Here was now the opportunity ready made.

‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I desire no better, but I warn you I have nothing very first-rate. I have only sketches, and it will take me a fortnight at least to complete them. There is no painting, only drawing, as yet.’

‘Never mind, monsieur; let us see what you have got.’

‘With great pleasure,’ I said as I unfastened my knapsack. ‘I will first show you the neighbourhood of Pirmasens, but what is that to be compared to your mountains? Your Valdhorn, your Krapenfelz, those are what I should like to paint; those are scenes and landscapes!’

Père Honeck made no immediate reply to this. He took gravely the picture I handed to him, the high tower, the new temple, and a background of mountains. I had finished this in water-colours.

The good man having studied this for a few minutes with arched brows and open mouth, selecting the best light by the window, said gravely: ‘That is splendid – capital; that’s right!’

He appeared quite affected by it.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s the place; that’s well done; one can recognise it all. Louise, come here, look at that. Wait, take it this side; is not that the old market itself, with the old fruiterer, Catherine, in the corner? And the grocer Froelig’s house, and there is the church porch and the baker’s shop. They are all there – nothing is wanting. Those blue mountains behind are near Altenberg. I can see them almost. Capital!’

Louise, leaning upon the old man’s shoulder, appeared quite wonder-stricken. She said not a word. But when her grandfather asked: ‘What do you think of that, Louise?’

‘I think as you do, grandfather; it is beautiful,’ she replied in a low voice.

‘Yes,’ exclaimed the old man, turning to me, and looking me full in the face. ‘I did not think you had it in you. I said to myself, “Here is a young fellow walking about for amusement.” Now I see you do know something. But mind, it is easier to paint houses and churches than woods. In your place I should stick to houses! Since you have begun I should go on if I were you: that’s certain.’

Then smiling at the ingenuous old man, I showed him a little sketch I had finished at Hornbach – a sunrise on the outskirts of the Howald. If the former had pleased him this threw him into ecstasies. After the lapse of a moment he raised his eyes and exclaimed: ‘Did you do that? It is marvellous – a miracle! There is the sun behind the trees; we can recognise the trees, too, and there are birch, beech, and oak. Well, Master Théodore, if you have done that I admire you.’

‘And suppose I were to suggest, Père Frantz,’ I said, ‘to remain here for a few days – and pay my way, of course – to look about me and paint a bit, would you turn me out of doors?’

A bright blush crossed the old keeper’s face.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘you are a good lad; you want to see the country – a most beautiful country it is, too, and I should think myself a brute to refuse you. You shall share our table, eggs, milk, cheese, a hare on occasion; you shall have the room we keep for the ranger, who will not visit us this year; but as for payment, I cannot take your money. No; I will not take a farthing. Besides, I am not an innkeeper – yet—’

Here the good man paused.

‘Yet,’ he continued, ‘you might, perhaps – after all, I do not like to ask; it is too much.’

He glanced at Louise, blushing more and more, and at length said: ‘That child yonder, monsieur. Is she difficult to paint?’

Louise at these words quite lost countenance.

‘Oh, grandfather!’ she stammered.

‘Wait a bit,’ cried the good man; ‘don’t imagine I am asking for anything very grand – not a bit; a bit of paper will do as big as my hand only. Look you, Louise, in thirty or forty years, when you have grown grey, you will be glad to have something like your young self to look at. I will not hide from you, Monsieur Théodore, that if I could see myself in uniform once again, helmet on my head, and my sword in my hand, I should be too delighted.’

‘Is that all?’ I exclaimed; ‘that’s easy enough, I am sure.’

‘You agree, then?’

‘Do I agree? Not only will I paint Mademoiselle Louise in a large picture, but I will paint you also, seated in your armchair, your musket between your knees, your gaiters and jack-boots on. Mademoiselle shall also be depicted leaning over the chair, and so that the picture may be complete, we will put in that rascal yonder.’

I indicated the dog which lay stretched upon the floor asleep, his muzzle resting upon his paws.

The old keeper gazed at me with tearful eyes.

‘I knew you were a good fellow,’ he said after a short silence. ‘It will give me great pleasure to be painted with my little granddaughter; she at least shall see me as I am now. And if in time she should marry and have children, she will be able to say: “That is Grandfather Frantz, just as he used to be.”’

Louise at this moment quitted the room. The old keeper wished to call her back, but his voice was husky, and he could not. A few moments afterwards, having coughed two or three times behind his hand, he resumed, pointing to the dog: ‘That, Monsieur Théodore, is a good greyhound, I do not deny; he has a good nose and strength of limb, but there are others as good. If you do not mind, we will put the other in the picture.’

He whistled, and the terrier bounded into the room; the greyhound also got up, and both dogs came wagging their tails to rub their noses against their master’s knees.

‘They are both good animals,’ he said as he caressed them. ‘Yes, Fox has good qualities; he has a good nose still, notwithstanding his age. I should wrong him were I to deny it. But if you want a rare dog, look at Waldine there. She has a nose as fine, ay, finer than, the other, she is gentle, never tires, and has all the qualities a good dog ought to have. But this is all beside the question, M. Théodore; what we have to look for in animals is good sense and “ready wit”.’

‘Rest assured, Père Frantz,’ I replied, ‘we will put both of them in!’

Père Frantz then invited me to see my room. I took up my knapsack, and we went outside to ascend to the gallery. Two doors opened upon the balcony; we passed the first, pushing aside the clustering ivy which stretched across the balustrade, and Père Honeck opened the farther door.

One can scarcely picture my happiness when I reflected that I was about to pass a fortnight – a month – perhaps the whole of the beautiful season – in the midst of these verdant scenes of nature far from the busy hum of men.

The shutters of the room had been closed since the departure of the ranger the preceding autumn. Honeck threw back the shutter into the plants which clambered over the wall alongside.

‘There, M. Théodore,’ he said, ‘look at that.’

In the subdued light that entered the room through the clustering creepers I perceived that the apartment was of good height and extent, the two windows opening directly full over the valley. So, notwithstanding the foliage, the light penetrated the room in all its strength, making patterns of the vine-leaves and honeysuckle on the wall. Between the windows was one of those antique chests of drawers of carved oak of great size. On the right in a sort of alcove was a bed with three mattresses. Four chairs of the same style as the chest of drawers occupied the embrasure of the smaller windows, and to the left in an old black frame was an engraving of Frederick II. On the chest of drawers were a water-bottle and two goblets of Bohemian glass.

‘Why, you lodge me like a prince, Père Honeck,’ I cried enthusiastically.

‘You are satisfied, then?’

‘Am I satisfied? Why a prince could not be better treated. Yes, I am content, quite content, I assure you. I have never been better lodged. I am in the seventh heaven,’ I exclaimed, as I seated myself at a window and let my eyes roam from the yard to the garden, from the garden to the orchard, from the orchard to the meadow, and the river as far as the eye could reach. What a view it was! Ah! how I could work, how freely I could breathe, how truly I could give myself up to the contemplation of those woods, those dells, those mountains!

‘Very well,’ said the old man; ‘all right; so much the better if everything is to your liking; but just see that you have all that you require.’

‘What more can I require? Everything seems as if it had been specially prepared for me. But – one moment – wait – is there—?’

‘Well – out with it!’

‘By Jove! It is not so easy to find what I want here!’

‘What is it, then?’

‘An easel.’

‘What on earth is that?’

‘A sort of desk on which I rest my pictures.’

‘I have never seen one,’ replied the keeper, becoming uneasy.

‘After that, Père Frantz, we must put up with the loss, only it is not so convenient.’

‘If I had known – if I had only seen it – perhaps—’

‘I will show you the kind of thing it is.’

Then opening my knapsack, with four strokes of a pencil I sketched an easel. The keeper understood it at once.

‘Is that all?’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘You may rest assured you will have one in the morning. I am something of a workman, M. Théodore, in all branches of trade. One must be so when one lives in the woods. My granddaughter often gives me a bit of carpentering to do. Let me go to work. I will take my saw and plane. You will help me, and we will settle it together.’

‘All right; that’s understood.’

And full of energy I set about unpacking my colours, my pencils, my palette, explaining to the old keeper as I did so the uses of all these things, which astonished him mightily, and he was quite impatient that I should set to work. I also unrolled my canvas, after arranging the dimensions of the picture which he was desirous I should paint. Père Honeck undertook to make the frame himself.

All these arrangements occupied us quite two hours; we were still in the room chatting and arranging matters when the blast of a horn announced the return of the youthful Caspar.

‘Hullo! time flies in your society,’ said the old keeper, rising. ‘It is midday already. The cows are returning. Let us go down, and after dinner we can set to work again.’

‘By all means,’ I replied. And we descended in high spirits.

II

It was exactly twelve o’clock when we came out upon the old gallery. The heat was almost insupportable.

It was the hour when everything seeks the shade; the cattle retire beneath the great trees, with bending limbs and closed eyes; the deer seek the coolest ferny retreats, the birds hide in the most leafy branches. All are silent except the insects, whose unceasing hum only renders the depth of silence more profound.

Young Caspar, his yellow hair hanging over his forehead like a tuft of grass, his face the colour of gingerbread, his little thin arms showing sunburnt to the elbow beneath his short-sleeved linen vest, once blue, and wearing trousers of threadbare linen ragged and hanging about his legs – this little Caspar, with his naked feet and his nose in the air, advanced proudly blowing his horn. Behind him came five or six goats with well-filled udders, an old male and three kids bringing up the rear. They appeared to be quite broiled by the sun, and meanwhile Caspar blew long blasts upon his horn which echoed to the very depths of the forest.

‘Hi, Caspar!’ cried the old keeper from the top of the staircase, ‘take your goats in first – you can blow that horn of yours in the evening as much as you please.’

The youthful goatherd made no reply. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, opened the gate into the yard, and looking at me all the time from the corner of his eye, he admitted the goats, which disported themselves in a frolicsome manner as they advanced to the stable. Then Père Frantz, looking at me with a smile, said: ‘We must keep these young people up to their work, eh?’

We then descended the staircase, and turning the corner we entered the darkened parlour, which felt so cool in consequence of the luxuriant growth surrounding the window. Louise entered and laid a white cloth at one end of the table. In the centre were placed a small soup-tureen and three plates. I cannot deny that I was very much pleased to think that Louise was to dine with us.

‘We must have some air at dinner-time,’ said the old keeper as he threw open the lattice-casement. ‘I would rather suffer a little greater heat than be unable to breathe freely. Sit down yonder, M. Théodore; now that you are one of us that shall be your place.’

I sat down against the wall. Louise appeared almost immediately with a bottle of clear water all covered with glittering air-bubbles, and a decanter of white wine.

As she placed them on the table she raised her eyes timidly, and encountered my steadfast gaze. She blushed deeply. I felt somewhat discomfited too.

‘Well, Louise, what is there for dinner?’ asked Père Honeck.

‘You know very well, grandfather, that there is no meat in the house. I have made an omelette.’

She took the cover off the tureen, and the smell of some very excellent white soup pervaded the room. The soup having been served, we took it with great gusto, Frantz and I.

‘What excellent soup!’ I exclaimed when I had finished.

‘Well, yes, it is not so bad,’ said the old man, as he licked his moustache.

Louise having gone out to fetch the omelette, he leaned over towards me, and whispered: ‘She can make soup as well and better than Mother Grédel at The Swan; it is a miracle.’

Louise re-entered at the moment, and he stopped.

After the omelette we had cheese by way of dessert, and a bumper of wine terminated the repast.

‘I have had a good dinner,’ said the keeper as he got up from the table; ‘and you, M. Théodore?’

‘I have dined capitally – could not be better,’ I replied.

He then entered the kitchen, lit his pipe, and came out again, saying: ‘Now then to work.’

It was nearly one o’clock; the shadows were beginning to lengthen in the yard; the dogs were sleeping on the doorstep, the fowls on the coping of the wall beneath the vines.

We turned round by the yard. As we passed I saw Louise through the small panes of glass washing the plates at the sink in the kitchen, and I could not help giving her a friendly nod. Beneath the staircase of the old gallery a sort of cavern opened, to which we descended by three steps. In the midst of this room we found a massive carpenter’s bench, and the walls were hung around with saws, planes, and other tools.

Frantz took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and, lifting up a pine plank, said: ‘I think this will do for us. Now give me the measurements, M. Théodore.’ So we began our work.

And thus it happened, my dear friends, that in the year of grace 1839, in the lovely month of August, I found myself installed with the old keeper, Frantz Honeck, in the depths of the forest of Rothalps.

III

To this day I can recall with pleasure the first hours of my sojourn at the house in the forest. Père Honeck came to wake me very early in the morning.

‘Come along, M. Théodore,’ he said, placing the lanterns on the chest of drawers. ‘Day is breaking; it is time to get up.’

I hesitated, and began to stretch my arms.

‘Ah, Père Frantz, if you only knew how I have slept!’

‘Slept at your age! Bah! you told me the other day that I was not to attend to you; it was only joking on your part. Now get up; it is a splendid morning.’

Then, taking my courage in both hands, I jumped up, had a hasty wash, half dressed myself, and, very chilly, I pushed aside the creepers to take a look at the prospect without.

The misty rain was falling thickly, and all was grey, vague, and confused. The keeper left the room; his lantern was on the chest of drawers. I dressed, and put on my thick leather boots to walk in the rain. Five minutes afterwards Waldine and Fox burst in upon me, jumping up and wagging their tails.

Pressing my felt hat over my ears I glided past Louise’s chamber and descended to the yard, where I found Master Honeck standing beneath the cart-shed, his fowling-piece slung over his shoulders.

‘Here you are, then; let us be off,’ he said.

He opened the garden gate, and we took the path leading to Grinderwald. We proceeded at a good pace, Père Frantz in advance with bent back, his limbs as steady as a young man’s. I came behind, still somewhat sleepy; but very soon the fresh morning air, the movement, the feeling of satisfaction at having conquered my laziness, dissipated all unpleasant impressions. After the lapse of a few minutes I felt comfortable and vigorous, and could have accomplished my fifteen leagues without fatigue.

Oh, that night march! The solitude of the woods, the freshness, the perfume of the giant pines and the wild plants – how all this invigorates one, clears the brain, and sets the pulses of life bounding afresh!

We did not speak; we walked along, given up to our own reflections without any need to communicate them one to the other. We were bound for the distant ‘felling villages’ of Grinderwald, amongst the forest population.

Have you, my readers, ever heard, very early in the morning, the hatchet of the woodcutter striking the oak with measured cadence? Have you ever heard in the distance, in the far distance, the sharp blows which are prolonged by the echoes? Then the creaking of the falling tree, the warning shout, the rustling of the leaves, and the dull thud of the giant measuring his length upon the earth, crashing among the brushwood? Have you ever beheld the fire of the charcoal-burner under the dark shade of the green boughs, tinting with a red glow the briars and moss, and throwing a ruddy tinge even upon the tops of the lofty fir-trees, then drawing the luminous belt closer only to spread it out wider than before? And the charcoal-burner standing out in strong relief, squatting by the flame, his great felt hat flattened upon his back, smoking a short pipe, and turning the potatoes in the embers; have you ever seen this behind the underwood? Well, it was in the centre of such a strange world as this that Père Honeck and I were to travel for days in the forest of Rothalps.

Thanks to these morning rambles I became thoroughly acquainted with the locality in about three weeks; the rocks, torrents, ravines, felling stations, charcoal-burners, the old roads of schlitte – in fact, all the best points of view, except, perhaps, the Lake of the Wild Huntsman, of which the old keeper declined to speak.

I recollect quite well, as we were going to Grinderwald, the fancy that, for the twentieth time, possessed me to revert to this subject.

‘Ah, by-the-bye, there is the Lake of the Wild Huntsman, Père Honeck; when shall we go thither?’

He was, as usual, on in front, and, turning slowly, would gaze at me with a peculiar expression; then, raising his hand and pointing towards the north, he would reply brusquely: ‘The lake is yonder, M. Théodore, between those high peaks; you can go there if you like.’

‘How? Will you not guide me?’

‘You want a guide to the Wild Huntsman’s Lake. No, no; every one is free to do as he pleases. I will not prevent you from going since you are bent upon it, but Frantz Honeck does not go up that side of the mountain – not he.’

The old man said this in such a mysterious manner that it impressed me; my desire to see this lake naturally increased; yet a sort of deference to my host’s opinion prevented my going thither; so I waited a favourable opportunity.

But we returned from our expeditions to Grinderwald between seven and eight o’clock. Louise had laid the cloth; the omelette, the wine, and the water awaited us. We sat down gladly and ate with good appetite, drank our wine, then smoked our pipes leaning from the window and watching little Caspar opening the stabledoor, then cracking his whip as his long line of cows and goats filed in. This was still the pleasantest time of the day, one of those calm, sweet rural scenes whose remembrance fades not.

Sometimes I went alone to the borders of the Howald, to the banks of the Losser, to paint a rock, a cluster of oaks, a corner of the forest; or to the opposite hills to study the long perspectives. I never worked so well in my life. And the portrait – I made great progress with that.

I can fancy I see Père Honeck now seated clad in his grand green uniform, with yellow braid, his forage-cap tilted over one ear, buttoned up, brushed very solemn, his carbine between his knees, his pouch and haversack on one side, his game-bag on the other; his heavy grey moustache turned up at the ends. Behind him Louise, red as a turkey-cock, her pretty fair hair crowned with a little cap of black hair with pink and gold ornaments, the little sky-blue silk fichu crossed over her bosom, and her pretty arms, naked to the elbow, crossed over the back of the chair.

I had, above all things needful, capital light, that tempered by the leafy screens overhead. The foliage on the right, the small lattice-window, the pretty face of Louise, her rounded arms, her pretty plump hands, her peasant costume, so neat and picturesque, and the sunburnt wrinkled face of the old keeper, with his grey piercing eyes beneath his bushy white eyebrows, all harmonised wonderfully in this darkened light.

And then I did all I could myself; I painted with all my soul, all my love, all my enthusiasm, arising from my life in the open air, my admiration for the mountains, my happy existence, centered thus in the forest; there was all this in the picture, the most complete and the best executed portrait I had ever done.

As the picture advanced towards completion Père Honeck appeared to like me more and more. Often-times when returning from my rambles in the evening I found him in my room contemplating the portrait in a sort of ecstasy.

‘Ah, there you are, M. Théodore!’ he used to say; ‘I am in the humour to have a peep at myself.’

‘And does it suit? Are you contented with it?’

‘Monsieur Théodore, do you require the opinion of such a poor old fellow as I? You are an artist, and I am only an old ignorant keeper. You know that you were right to put in the grey, the red, and the brown, and all sorts of colours necessary. You are a true artist. And that picture, let me tell you, though it is only the portrait of Frantz Honeck and his granddaughter Louise, ought to be placed in a castle, and not in the poor dwelling of a forester.’

Thus the old keeper spoke in a tone of conviction that charmed me. But more than all I wished to hear Louise’s opinion, and I did not dare to ask it.

‘What sense that girl has!’ said Frantz to me one day. ‘Yesterday morning, as we were returning from Grinderwald, I was thinking very much of our portrait, and I was wondering how a few patches of green, yellow, or red on the grey could represent people so exactly, so that they appeared to exist long after their deaths. The more I pondered the less I understood it. As I came into the yard I found Louise feeding the fowl. “Ah, Louise,” I cried, “can you tell me how it is that our portrait is more beautiful than the picture of Saint Catherine at Pirmasens?” “Why, grandfather, it is because it lives.” “Lives!” “Why of course it is not your face, not mine, that M. Théodore is painting, nor the vine-leaves at the window, nor the daylight: it is our souls!” Do you understand this fine distinction?’ said the old man. ‘She found out the reason at once. There are no children now-a-days – no children now.’

And Père Frantz laughed heartily. For my part I was very glad to know Louise’s opinion at last. The old keeper had no misgivings respecting my increasing affection for his granddaughter; and myself – had I seriously considered the question? Day by day Louise identified herself more and more with those I held dearest in the world. In the house I could not catch her dainty footfalls or the rustle of her dress without listening for her approach. Out of doors there was Louise. I could see her before me in the path; her graceful figure, her fair hair, her springing step appeared to me amid the shade of the brushwood. And in the evening, as I hastened homewards towards the house whose roof peeped amid the trees, it was not Père Honeck whom I first descried, it was always Louise in the gallery, in the garden, or perhaps at one of the upper windows, framed in the ivy or honeysuckle.

‘Well, M. Théodore, have you found a good subject?’ she would exclaim in her pleasant voice. ‘Are you satisfied with your work?’

‘Yes, Louise, yes, I am, quite so. Everything is so beautiful here.’

I should have liked to say more, but that calm, clear gaze of the girl inspired more respect than love.

Nevertheless, one evening, when we were in the old galley watching the glorious autumn sunset, and both Louise and I were silent in admiration of the beauty of the sight, suddenly, and as it were in spite of myself, I exclaimed sadly: ‘Oh, why cannot I always remain here? Why must I leave this place?’

Louise looked at me in surprise.

‘Do you wish to go away, M. Théodore?’ she said, a slight blush overspreading her countenance as she spoke.

‘Yes, Louise, I must go. They are expecting me at Dusseldorf, and besides, the picture is finished now.’

My voice trembled. Louise, who was watching me, dropped her head without making any answer. After a long pause she murmured as if to herself: ‘Great Heaven, I never thought of that!’

For more than a quarter of an hour we remained silent, leaning over the balcony, and not daring to look at one another. I was conscious of a voice within saying to me, ‘Speak; tell her you love her.’ But another and a more powerful voice replied, ‘No, Théodore, do not do that; remember the hospitality you have enjoyed; remember that the old man has treated you like his own son. You may not be able to carry out your promise to Louise.’

And as I listened to these two voices young Caspar appeared with his file of goats; then Louise, lifting her eyes like one awakening from a dream, said: ‘It is seven o’clock, M. Théodore; grandfather will soon be back. I must go and attend to the cooking.’

She descended the staircase with bowed head and abstracted air. I entered my room, and sitting down by the window I rested my head between my hands and reflected on the consequences until the cheery voice of Père Honeck reached me: ‘M. Théodore, come down; the cloth is laid.’

I went and sat down at table. Père Frantz had that day shot a splendid grouse, and intended to take it himself to the ranger at Pirmasens. He told us how, when returning from the stubble-field, a herd of wild boar had crossed the track, and that one of these fine mornings he would pay them a visit so that I might taste boar’s-head. All these incidents had made him very cheerful, and he took a glass more than usual; then, caressing his moustaches, he said to Louise: ‘My child, the night is fine; let us go outside and sit upon the bench and sing the hymn “Oh Lord, the Author of our holy thoughts”.’

Louise blushed, and said she did not feel inclined to sing.

‘Bah!’ said the old man, taking her by the arm; ‘you must come out, and the singing will come too. M. Théodore, you have never heard Louise sing; she has a voice – a voice – well, I have never heard anything to equal it!’

So we went out.

Little Caspar was cutting a whip-handle from the hedge in the garden. We sat down upon the old moss-covered stone seat, and Père Honeck struck up the hymn.

Louise’s sweet voice took up the tune and mounted to heaven so purely that all the fibres of my heart responded tremblingly.

The voices harmonised so perfectly that I could not remember ever having listened to anything more beautiful; it was like the ivy clinging in graceful festoons around the topmost branches of an ancient oak in Grinderwald. Then the night was so lovely; the streaks of the sunset glow extended from one valley to the other; a gentle breeze agitated the leaves.

Gravely absorbed in my reflections I listened, and at length, impelled by a mysterious impulse, I united my voice to those of the old keeper and his granddaughter.

Little Caspar, in a neighbouring bramble, stretched forth his neck, and with wide-open eyes gazed at us in delight. When we had finished Honeck cried out: ‘Well, Caspar, what do you think of that, eh?’

The youth only struck his cheek with the back of his hand in reply.

Never shall I forget that evening; we remained out there singing, chatting of the picture, of hunting on distant expeditions, of lovely landscapes, until nearly ten o’clock.

The stars were shining out in thousands overhead, when at length the old keeper said, as he rose up: ‘We must start for Pirmasens tomorrow morning at three o’clock; we ought to go to bed now. Good night, M. Théodore.’

‘Good night, Père Frantz; good night, Mademoiselle Louise.’

And I mounted the staircase thankful for all the blessings I had received.

IV

Once alone in my room I was in the habit of pondering upon the affairs of the day, and a melancholy feeling took possession of me. I had no desire to sleep, so I sat down, leaning my elbow upon the window-sill, and gazed out between the large leaves which were silvered by the moon’s rays.

The various sounds of our forest residents had one by one died away, the old keeper was in bed, the dogs had stretched themselves comfortably in their corners, the silence, a profound silence, fell upon everything, and was scarcely broken by the murmur of the wind through the trees, and I thought, ‘In a few days I shall be leaving here, knapsack on shoulder, bâton in hand; Louise will say in her sweet voice, “Adieu, M. Théodore, adieu!” Père Honeck will accompany me some distance on my journey, to the fork of the river perhaps, and will then shake my hand, saying: “Well, well, we must part. I wish you a pleasant journey, M. Théodore; Heaven be with you!” And that would be the end of all these days of peace and love – nothing but a memory henceforth!’

Thinking of these things, I felt a sad swelling of the heart.

‘Ah! if you could only live by your work, or if your aunt Catherine would make you a nice little allowance, you could decide this question. But as things are at present you must go, and as your voice trembles each time you speak to Louise you must avoid being alone in her society, so that Père Frantz may think you a man of honour, and you may think the same of yourself!’

So I determined to set out next day to the Lake of the Wild Huntsman as soon as Père Honeck had left us for Pirmasens; and about eleven o’clock I went to bed satisfied with the resolutions I had taken.

But other things occurred in the course of that night, such strange events as will never be effaced from my mind.

Philosophers think that there is nothing in this world that does not come under the control of our senses, and such men when dying gaze in an affrighted manner into the gloom as if they could perceive something terrible which they fear to meet in a closer inspection. Then some one says, ‘What do they perceive yonder? are there other beings in existence which are visible only to the dying?’

The fly, fluttering towards the sunlight, does not see the spider which is watching for him in his web; he does not perceive him until it is too late to escape his clutches. But what can one say upon such a subject as that to which I have referred? These beings either exist or they do not exist. We shall know one day, and the later the better!

I slept quietly enough until about one o’clock, when the plaintive howling of Waldine and Fox awoke me suddenly. I raised myself upon my elbow and listened intently. The moon was shining brilliantly just opposite my window, the trellis-work with the leaves and climbing plants crossed its disc in black relief, as did the little hexagonal panes, and farther away five or six sprays of the fir-trees cut the shining surface.

Just awakened from sleep as I was, this effect of light and shade had a most peculiar appearance, but the howling of the dogs had a most depressing effect; they gave forth their yells in full cry slowly, and in a prolonged howl, from a low note to the highest sharp of which a canine throat is capable.

I now remembered that Spitz, the old dog belonging to my aunt Catherine, had howled in just such a manner while my uncle Matthias was dying; and this thought made my blood run cold.

Soon the lowing of the cows, the cries of the goats, and the grunting of the pigs mingled with the howling of the dogs in a most dreadful ensemble. Then Père Honeck jumped out of bed, the window underneath was opened hastily, and the rattle of a gun being loaded struck upon my ear. I waited for the shot, and my blood chilled as I listened, but the dogs continued to howl, the cattle to low without cessation, and just as the blood was leaving my flushed cheeks, I heard the old keeper call out: ‘Fox, Waldine, keep quiet there!’

It was a great relief to me to hear his voice, and I may confess that the superstitious fears I had experienced dispersed; it seemed as if the dread influence had passed away, and I arose full of courage.

From the old gallery I immediately perceived Père Honeck, gun in hand, standing upright before the low wall of the yard. He was only half-dressed; his head was raised, his hair was dishevelled; he had all the appearance of a person listening intently for something.

I hurriedly descended the staircase.

‘In the name of Heaven what is this all about?’ I asked in a low voice.

‘Ah!’ he replied, turning his head, and pointing towards the gorge of the Losser, ‘it is that brute who is passing with his band. Listen! It is the Wild Huntsman.’

I listened, but no sound except the distant murmur of the river broke upon my ears. I was surprised. ‘But, Père Frantz,’ I said after a pause, ‘I do not hear anything.’

Then the old keeper, as one who is awaking from a dream, turned very pale, and fixing his grey eyes upon mine, said with a strange look in his face: ‘It is a wolf – yes, the old wolf of the Veierschloss with his cubs. Every year that beast prowls about the house. The dogs even are aware of his presence; they are afraid of him.’

Then approaching the hounds he said, as he patted their heads to reassure them: ‘Come, come, old fellow; Waldine, lie down; that cursed beast is far away by this time; he will not return.’

The dogs, trembling still, rubbed themselves against their master’s legs, at the same time the goats and cows ceased to bleat and bellow.

Père Honeck, rising, grounded his gun, and with a forced smile said: ‘I am sure you were afraid, M. Théodore; is it not so? Those sounds at the dead of night always produce a very curious sensation; so many ideas crowd upon one’s brain. But you see dogs are like human creatures; when they get old they dote – a poor wretched wolf frightens them; instead of attacking him they cry like blind animals, and attempt to save themselves. Well, well, they are quiet now, and the cattle also; so we may go to bed and have a good sleep.’

As he spoke he opened the door of his room, and shivering, I once again ascended to my own.

All this appeared to me very unnatural; the tone of the old keeper’s voice, his pallor, the curious expression of his grey eyes as he spoke of wolves and their cubs, all seemed to me equivocal. I was quite upset and nervous. Was this the effect of the chill night-air, the sudden interruption of my sleep, or what other cause had rendered me so excited? I could not understand, but for the first time the conviction of invisible influences, of supernatural beings, took possession of my mind.

I jumped into bed and hid my head beneath the clothes up to my ears; then with wide-open eyes I kept looking at the lattice and thinking of all these things. The moon had passed away from the window; she was now lighting up the side of the house and the fir plantation below. While I slept I fancied I could hear the dogs growling again from time to time like the distant muttering of a storm; these animals were as nervous as I was.

At length all was quiet, and my brain being worn out by these strange occurrences, I fell fast asleep.

V

When I awoke it was broad daylight, the fowls were cackling in the yard, the dogs were running about, and all else was quiet and peaceful around our forest home. I dressed quietly and went downstairs into the large dining-room. There I found Père Honeck walking up and down in a ‘brown study’. The breakfast was laid as usual upon the white cloth.

‘What! still here, Père Honeck!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why I thought you were halfway to Pirmasens by this time!’

‘Caspar has gone instead, M. Théodore,’ he replied. Then after a pause he added as we seated ourselves: ‘I must remain here; Louise is not very well, and cannot get up this morning.’

The occurrences of the night came to my recollection, and I now remembered that Louise had not appeared during the alarm, and that struck me as strange. I would gladly have mentioned the subject to Père Frantz, but towards the end of our meal the old keeper became unusually silent, and appeared less inclined to converse than usual; he evidently was concealing something, and I did not think it prudent to question him.

‘Well, that is not very serious, Père Honeck,’ I said as we rose from table.

‘Let us hope it may not be,’ he replied gravely. ‘Are you going out anywhere today, M. Théodore?’

‘Yes, I think of going to sketch the “Thrushes’ Retreat” in the Howald.’

‘Good – go,’ he said, as if glad to be rid of me.

I nodded and went out. Soon afterwards I took my sketch-book and the path to the Howald.

‘It is quite time I went,’ I said to myself sadly. ‘The picture is finished, the girl is ill. Père Frantz has some secret lurking in his mind. I shall become a nuisance in the house. Everything in this mundane sphere must have an end. I have been well received and lodged, and I ought to be content. Now it is “Farewell, M. Théodore; take care of yourself.”’

I was thoroughly unhappy.

The image of Louise – that soft pink and white face – gripped my heart ‘with hooks of steel’. The somewhat reserved tone of the old keeper when speaking to me respecting his granddaughter gave me sufficient food for reflection. Was Louise really ill, or was Père Honeck doubtful about my affection for her? What ideas was I picturing to myself on this subject! I went on at random; a distant gleam in the brushwood, the profile of an aged tree, the grey form of a decaying old trunk covered with moss and ivy, arrested my footsteps: I wished to go on, and take the memory of the place with me everywhere, but I had no fancy for anything; the fair maiden face occupied me entirely.

About three o’clock the weather became overcast, and up to that time I had never yet seen the grand old forest without the sunbeams. A fine mist began to fall. I turned back and retraced my steps. Autumn was upon us, I realised. I determined to tell Père Honeck that I was about to return to Dusseldorf.

About six o’clock I drew near the house once again, and I could perceive the old keeper at the door. He waved his hand to me, apparently glad at my return, but it was only a momentary brightness, and his face resumed its serious expression.

‘Have you a change of clothes, M. Théodore?’ he said as I came up.

‘Yes, I have all that I require.’

‘All right; run upstairs; I will wait for you; dinner is laid.’

‘Very well; I will be down in five minutes.’

He entered the passage, and I ascended to my room, changed, and came down to dinner. As the afternoon was gloomy, Frantz Honeck lighted the lamp. We supped together without speaking. He was in a reverie, his eyes fixed upon his plate, while I was irritated by his silence, to which I was unaccustomed.

This kind of thing lasted for half-an-hour. The solemn ticking of the old Nuremberg clock and the loud patter of the unceasing rain upon the leaves appeared to lengthen that period indefinitely, and forced me to count the quarters of the seconds. I shall never forget that evening. How was I to announce my approaching departure? It was easy enough. I had only to say, ‘Père Honeck, I must leave you tomorrow.’ Yes, but what would he think of such a sudden determination? Would he not attribute it to the discontent with which I experienced his reserve, to the irksomeness of Louise’s absence, perhaps even to the discovery of the secret he wished to conceal? What do I know? In uncertainty everything stops one.

I kept gazing at the old keeper, who sat with knitted brows, and appeared scarcely conscious of my presence.

However, as he pushed back his chair to the window and took up his pipe, according to custom, suddenly, in a loud voice, I said: ‘Père Frantz, look at the rain; it may continue for some days. The picture is completed. My aunt Catherine expects me at Dusseldorf. I must tell you at once tomorrow I leave here.’

Then he, fixing his grey eyes on me, and looking as if he would read my very soul, replied, after a pause: ‘Yes, yes, I expected as much. You are going away, and will carry with you a false impression concerning Frantz Honeck and his granddaughter.’

‘A false impression! Why I have never experienced such hospitality as yours, Master Frantz, so cordial, so frank, so—’

‘Oh, that is not my meaning. You cannot conceal anything from me, M. Théodore; you have too open a countenance to conceal your thoughts. I saw it last night, and I see it now in your eyes, that you have something on your mind; you suspect Frantz Honeck of keeping secrets.’

I could not help blushing, and he continued as he filled his pipe: ‘Well, you cannot deny it, so you see I am right. But it shall never be said that a straightforward fellow like you, a man of feeling, a true artist, quitted this house with any suspicions of us. No, no, that shall never be. You shall know all; you shall know why I have refused to guide you to the Lake of the Wild Huntsman; why the dogs howled so last night, why Louise is ill – everything. I have been thinking of this since the morning. It is not to every one that one would confide family matters, sacred confidences touching religion and honour. No; one must know and esteem the person to whom we confide such things.’

‘Master Honeck, your esteem and friendship touch me deeply, but if it be in the least unpleasant—’

‘No, not the least; it is not as if you were a scamp. Listen, M. Théodore. I will just go down to the cellar and fetch a bottle of wine, and since you wish to leave us, well, we will drink a parting glass.’

And without waiting for my reply he descended to the cellar.

My readers can picture my astonishment; the grave manner in which Père Frantz spoke announced the serious nature of his confidence. The strange occurrence of the preceding night, the lugubrious howling of the dogs, the indisposition of Louise, the refusal of the old keeper to conduct me to the Lake of the Wild Huntsman – how could he explain all these? What mysterious narration could reconcile such widely-different occurrences? I confess all this excited my curiosity to a very high pitch.

When Père Honeck returned his face had undergone a change; the preoccupied expression of the day before had given way to a sort of exultation. He put the bottle on the table; then, seating himself and filling the glasses, he said: ‘Fill your pipe first; this will be a long story, but as we are about to part for an indefinite period, we must not grudge passing a night together. Your health, M. Théodore.’

‘Yours, Master Frantz.’

We drank the toast respectively. The old keeper, leaning out of the window, gazed around. Night had fallen; the rain had ceased; no sound, save the regular drip, drip, of the water, was heard as it fell from leaf to leaf. He then returned to his seat with a preoccupied air, and commenced his narrative as follows:

‘Four hundred years ago there existed in this country a race of wolves. When I say wolves, I mean a savage race who delighted in hunting and fighting, and who believed that plants, animals, and men had been created solely for their enjoyment and food. This race is named the Wild Huntsmen, and in our old forest charts they are known by no other name. They themselves lay claim to the ancient stock of the Burckar kings of Suabia. Whether they were right or not I cannot say, but one thing is very certain, that they were thickset and broad-shouldered and entirely covered with hair; that they all, young and old, had low flat foreheads, yellow eyes, hook noses, enormous mouths, garnished with immense regular white teeth, and massive chins, bristling with shaggy beards which extended as high as the temples. Their arms were so long that they could reach below their knees without stooping, and this attribute gave them a great advantage in the handling of the sword, axe, or other instruments of warfare, in the use of which they were great adepts.

‘On the other hand, it must be confessed that on the Rhine, from Strasburg to Cologne, and even farther, there were no such warriors and no more famous hunters than those wild men; they passed all their time on horseback, either hunting the deer, or in burning, pillaging, and sacking the smaller châteaux, the convents, the churches, and the hamlets in the vicinity.

‘This race of nobly-born robbers had their headquarters for centuries in a fortress built upon the living rock, on the border of the lake bearing their name. The smallest blocks used in building this stronghold were ten feet square. Plants grew around in abundance, and even shrubs like the holly, the briar, and the hawthorn flourished. One would have fancied it an unbroken precipice, but behind the brushwood were embrasures through which the archers discharged their bolts upon the passers-by, as a party of sportsmen would fire upon defenceless game.

‘A deep moat filled with water from the lake surrounded the castle, and above it rose four high square towers, whereon used to swing at the end of the long iron rods the bodies of the unhappy peasants who were caught poaching upon the territory of the Wild Huntsmen.

‘Naturally the ravens, owls, and hawks enjoyed themselves immensely in a spot where flesh was never wanting. These birds might have been seen in the nooks of the Veierschloss cleaning their beaks, pluming themselves as they awaited their horrible banquet, or ranged in long files, their heads on their shoulders, with still sanguinary beaks, sitting, gorged and lethargic after their disgusting meals, upon the line of ramparts. At night their horrible cries filled the valley, and mingled with the songs of the robbers, just as in a farmyard the twittering of the sparrows is mingled with the “tic-a-tack” of the threshers in the barn after the harvest. Such, M. Théodore, is the manner in which these Burckars lived among the ruffians they had assembled round them to carry out their nefarious schemes, and it threatened to last for years. Fortunately, when misery is greatest Providence comes to our rescue, and by means such as those brigands cannot comprehend.

‘The last of the race was called Vittikâb; he was just like the rest in appearance, in his love of gold, of hunting, of dogs and horses.

‘And since I am on the subject I may tell you that these Wild Huntsmen had succeeded in obtaining, by cross-breeding the collie, the Danish dog, and the wolf, a race of dogs unrivalled in hunting, so hardy, so untiring were they. These were the wolf-dogs, thin muscular animals with upright ears, red eyes, jaws as firm as iron, long tails, strong haunches like all savage animals, and black claws. In all old hunting narrations they speak of these dogs, and wish that the breed could be restored, for they are sadly needed in wild-boar hunts; but the breed is extinct, and will never be resuscitated.

‘Vittikâb, then, had the same tastes, and character as the other Burckars; he was the greatest hunter and the most accomplished robber of his time. I remember having seen, when I was a youth, a picture of him in an old almanac, in which he was represented as pillaging Landau. Every house was burning; people were clustered on the roofs, and extending their hands in supplication to Heaven, or casting their furniture from the windows. The Trabans at the end of the street had two or three children impaled upon their lances like frogs; enough to make your hair stand on end to look at the picture only; and when one thinks that there were men who actually committed such barbarities it makes one shudder. Underneath was written, “Sacking of Landau in the year 1409”. And on the opposite page was a likeness of Vittikâb, very stern, a sort of helmet upon his head, with a protruding beak which extended almost as far as his nose. To look at him one would say he deserved to be burned alive – he was the most cruel brute on the earth.’

Père Frantz, pale with anger, lit his pipe at the candle; he closed his eyes and waited until the tobacco was properly lighted, a thoughtful expression upon his face. I kept looking at him in a dreamy fashion. At length he pushed the candle to the centre of the table again, and recommenced:

‘Now I am compelled to admit that amongst this troop of Vittikâb’s was my ancestor Zaphéry. That is a most painful reflection for me; I would rather have been descended from the poorest peasant who had suffered indignities at the hands of those rascals, for that would cause me to dwell upon the fortunes of my ancestors – now I can only blush for them. As I am powerless to change them, I consider that it is intended as a punishment for my pride, if I had any; but you know very well, M. Théodore, that I have none, and that I only pride myself upon my rank in the service, as all men ought to do who have got what they really deserved.

‘This Honeck was at that time chief huntsman of the Veierschloss. If you will go near the Wild Huntsman’s Lake tomorrow you will see the ruins of the castle; it is a great pile of rubbish which covers at least three acres. Two towers are still standing. Between them the portal can still be perceived, and above the door, on the right, near to the aperture, whence protruded one of the girders of the drawbridge, is still a round-shaped window. There Zaphéry Honeck lived in a kind of vault above the guard-room. You can no longer get up there, because the staircase is broken away; but in my young days I very well remember my grandfather Gottlieb brought me there to tell me this history I am now telling you.

‘In this vault Zaphéry could see from one side the opposite mountain, from the other the courtyard of the Veierschloss; for there were two courts, surrounded by high walls, and dark as cisterns. In the first were all the dog-kennels, ranged side by side, and a staircase to the right leading to the apartments of the chief Wild Huntsman himself; on the left a similar staircase led up to the resting-place of the commoner robbers; and beneath were the kitchens, the bakery, and the butcher’s stalls. In the other court were the stables and the wood-house. You can go there tomorrow and you will see how solidly built it is.

‘Honeck slept in that vault, and all day he hunted in the mountain. I do not know whether he actually took part in Vittikâb’s expeditions, but he could not have been much better than the rest of them, because the Wild Huntsman liked him very much, and never went out hunting without him; they rushed together through the woods like the wind; they both thoroughly understood every trick and turn of the game they pursued. There never was such a fellow to sound the horn like Honeck, except Vittikâb, whose horn was three times larger, and whose blast almost tore the atmosphere asunder. When they sounded the fanfare together you might have heard them from the Howald to Steinberg; the old woods shook at the sound.

‘Honeck had something cheerful in his disposition, but Vittikâb was as gloomy as night itself; his yellow eyes always appeared to be looking for something to kill; he never smiled. Every evening, in his want of occupation, he would compel Master Honeck to enter the upper cavern, hung with battle-axes, two-handed swords, antlers, and all kinds of defensive weapons, and pointing to the table, he would say: “Eat, drink; your master commands you!”

‘And the huntsman, who desired nothing better, would seat himself before the venison and eat and drink abundantly as desired. The wine had been taken from Marmoutier cellars. They hobnobbed together. Honeck carried his wine like a mere bottle; he only made his cheeks and nose red. But the more Vittikâb drank the paler he became, the more he scowled, and the more absorbing became his desire for destruction.

‘Then at times as night advanced and the numerous owls hooted all along the cornices flapping their wings, and rapping with their beaks, then the Wild Huntsman would stare for half an hour at a time at his friend Honeck without moving an eyelid, his lips closed, and his nose curved with a terrible expression. And when the other least expected it he would exclaim suddenly: “Why do you laugh, you rascal?”

‘Honeck, like all old sportsmen, had a habit of closing the eye without knowing it. It was a nervous affection; he could not help it.

‘“I was not laughing, my lord,” he would reply.

‘“I say you were!” roared the Burckar.

‘“Well, since you wish it, I was, then,” said Honeck; “but I couldn’t help it.”

‘“Then why did you laugh?” repeated the count furiously.

‘“I was thinking of the hunting, and—”

‘“You lie! You were thinking – you were thinking of something very different.”

‘“What the devil should I be thinking of, then?” exclaimed Zaphéry. “If you would only say once and for all what you wish me to think about, I will tell you whenever you like to ask me, and then perhaps you will be satisfied.”

‘These words usually pacified Vittikâb when he had a gleam of sense left, but on other occasions his rage was much increased thereby, his yellow eyes gleamed instead of looking bloodshot; then it was high time for Honeck to get out of his reach, for when he appeared like that, the Burckar always attempted to kill his huntsman. So without losing any time in polite speeches and saying goodnight, at the very first gleam in his chief’s eyes he made for the door; the count would follow him in a terrible rage, stammering out, “Stop, stop, or I will have you hanged.” But Zaphéry paid no attention; he hurried down the staircase as if he were a robber. The dogs howled, the robbers rushed out of the guard-room to see what was the matter, and the count at once got calmer; the howling of the dogs somewhat sobered him, and he re-entered the room staggering, and muttering confusedly to himself.

‘Honeck barricaded himself in his vault, and lay down upon a bearskin to sleep off the effects of the wine he had taken. In this manner those two drunkards passed their days and nights. This happened every night, except when a storm was raging without; then Vittikâb was in his glory. He listened with delight to the thunder resounding through the gorges of the Howald; and when the rain, the wind, and hail rushed through the air, when the whole surface of the lake was white with foam, he went out upon the ramparts of the Veierschloss; while all the birds were torn from their nests and dispersed by the furious tempest like leaves in a storm, then the Wild Huntsman rose up and said, “Let us be off.”

‘And they would descend, Honeck and he, staggering one against the other, and saddle their horses. The robber-band hearing them coming down would hasten to lower the drawbridge; they would rush out together like a thunderbolt into the fearful storm. Then Vittikâb would laugh at the crashing of the trees and at the driving rain. At daybreak they would return through the distant hamlet, and he would say: “Honeck, I can sleep a little this morning, I fancy. I have not done such a thing for a long time.”

‘The poor inhabitants of those forest villages, the woodcutters, the charcoal-burners, often out of work and destitute, their cabin roofs penetrated by the rain, their wives and children shivering with cold, standing haggard at the door of their wretched dwellings, and seeing the terrible Burckar pass by with paler cheeks and eyes more sunken even than theirs, would say: “How is it that such a grand personage as he, with plenty of money, and land, and corn, can be wretched? Ah! if we were only in his place, if we had but the hundredth part of his riches, or even the crumbs that fall from his table, how happy we should be! – we should be thankful indeed.”

‘Yes, it is all very well to say, “We should be happy,” but one should see to the bottom of people’s hearts before they wish to be like them. The sparrows are cold enough during the winter and seek for food in a most pitiable plight, but they become gay enough and twitter from branch to branch when spring comes. What good would it do me to have spring always here if I did not enjoy anything? What use would it be to me to possess the best land in the district if the dew of heaven never descended and if the grass dried up? What good would it be were I very strong, very powerful, and very rich, if no ray of tenderness ever warmed my heart, and the remembrance of no good action ever roused my better feelings? Every one knows where his own shoe pinches, but he does not carry other people’s burthens. Before desiring a change he ought to look round him a little.’

The old keeper at this point winked at me and smiled. He then filled our glasses, and said: ‘Your health, M. Théodore.’

‘Yours, Père Frantz.’

‘You may think, perhaps, that it was remorse for all his wicked actions that made the Burckar miserable. On the contrary, he regretted he had not committed more evil deeds. What made him so inveterate against human nature you shall soon hear, and you will see whether there is not a Providence on the earth; you shall see whether poor and honest men have not the best reasons to rejoice; although rich people may appear outwardly prosperous and happy, a worm is preying upon their hearts.

‘Twenty years before that period, when Vittikâb was thirty years old, he married a daughter of the noble house of Lichtenberg, named Ursula. The count was much attached to this young lady, who was very beautiful and religious. He listened to her supplication sometimes when she begged the life of some poor creature whom he would have hanged. He trusted to have a son to continue the noble race of the Burckars, who would have also the inheritance in the Lichtenberg, because Ursula was an only child; these things had a softening influence upon his character.

‘But when the child was born, you can picture his rage at finding it was absolutely a monster, a hideous being which had no resemblance to humanity. Instead of acknowledging that this was the natural consequence of the ferocity of the Burckars, who had behaved like wild beasts for generations, instead of submitting to the decrees of Providence, he snatched the infant from its mother’s arms to strangle it. The young wife, who, notwithstanding all defects, loved her offspring – for you know, M. Théodore, that mother’s love is deepened in proportion to the helplessness, weakness, or faults of the children – well, the poor mother threw her arms around her husband and implored him to spare the child with such touching appeals and copious tears that he, the greatest monster of his race, was moved, and yielded somewhat to her entreaties. But he put away his wife and interned her in her room at the other end of the gallery. And as he passed along the gallery and saw all the hunters, all the beaters, and the reiters below in the yard waiting the birth of the infant Burckar, to salute him with a martial flourish like his ancestors, he exclaimed in a terrible tone: “The burckar is dead. Let Goëtz come up. The rest of you may go to the devil!”

‘He then returned to his lair.

‘This Goëtz whom he had summoned was an old hunter of fifty years of age, still robust, and who had educated Vittikâb himself. He was the most devoted servant that the family ever had. In days gone by this man wished to kill a wild boar at bay, and while on the point of attack had missed his aim. The furious animal had then, by a single blow on the hip, rendered the hunter lame for life. He was rough in appearance and manner, but that did not prevent his being a fairly good-hearted fellow all the same.

‘Two minutes afterwards he entered the private apartment of his chief, who, indicating the poor infant stretched upon the table, said: “There, look at that; that is a Burckar.”

‘The other recoiled, and the count, laughing like a hyena, said: “He is of thy master’s blood. At first I thought of killing him, but the breed deserves better treatment. Listen, old friend; you are lame; you cannot walk; it is with difficulty you can mount a horse. Well, you shall take this descendant of Virimar, and shall hide him with you in the Martens’ Tower, where you can live together. Perhaps he may improve as he grows older.”

‘Goëtz made an attempt to speak.

‘“I am ashamed of my offspring,” interrupted Vittikâb; “he must be concealed. I can depend upon nobody but you. If you refuse I will throw the thing into the lake, but woe to you if I repent afterwards!”

‘“I will obey you,” said Goëtz.

‘That very day a report was spread that the child would be buried. Goëtz and Vittikâb descended into the cavern of Virimar, the first of the Burckars, with a small coffin, and were followed by a band of reiters carrying torches. He interred the coffin in the tomb of Virimar. Then Goëtz departed to the Martens’ Tower with the child and with Hatvine, Vittikâb’s old nurse, who used to follow the expeditions on a mule to tend the wounded and to watch over the spoils. Hatvine was directed to carry the food of these two isolated beings. Every morning she went up to the tower with a large saucepan, high up to the Martens’ tower, the highest pinnacle of the Veierschloss.

‘The poor mother, who did not cease night and day to mourn for her child, at length died of grief, and the women of Lichtenberg who had been attending upon her disappeared without any one knowing what became of them, all but one old woman who had attended the countess in her confinement; she was devoured by two of the great Danish dogs one evening when she was crossing the courtyard. These dogs were seldom let loose because of their ferocity, except when an occasional attack was to be made upon a wolf and her young. That night they chanced to be at liberty, and the poor old midwife was devoured by them; such was her fate!

‘After these events Vittikâb could no longer contain himself; he nursed a spite against every one, particularly against children. About this time he entered upon his great wars against Trèves, Lutzelstein, Schirmeck, and Landau. The whole of the Hundsrück, from Alsace to the Vosges, rang with these startling tidings, and the remembrance of them has been transmitted through four centuries as a testimony of the extent to which men without honesty, religion, or honour can go. No savage beasts could supply a more cruel history.

‘After these conflicts, which lasted eight years, Vittikâb came to the Veierschloss again, no longer ruddy as heretofore and reserved in manner; no longer the boon companion of his captain, Jacobus, and his lieutenant, Krapt, and the kind-hearted master to his old nurse, Hatvine. He could endure the society of no one except Honeck, for they ever were hunting and drinking together.

‘But he was continually thinking about the child; sometimes he was anxious to have it killed, sometimes he was tempted to have it proclaimed a Burckar, notwithstanding its appearance, and to exterminate all those who would not confess its suitability; for the reflection, that his next of kin, the Geroldsek, the Dagsbourg, the Lutzelstein, savages like himself, hunters, man-slayers seeking only each other’s destruction – to think that these relatives of his, whom he wished dead at least, should one day inherit his property, that they should divide his woods, his dogs, his horses, and the treasure amassed during past centuries by the Burckars in the caverns of the Veierschloss – to think that this must happen sooner or later, made his eyes glisten with fury. He would shake with rage, and perambulate the galleries with flashing eyes, his red beard stiff with anger, and with a dreamy, fearsome aspect such as an untamed tiger wears in his cage.

‘How to obviate this, how could it be obviated, that was the question.

‘The more he pondered over it the less he saw his way to an accomplishment. He was minded to burn it all – the castle and the wood together; but the ground would still remain, and gold and the ruins; his cousins would rebuild the Veierschloss!

‘What was to be done? He got very tipsy by way of sharpening his intellect; then one night he made his way towards the Martens’ Tower. He was going to see the “monster”, whom old Goëtz had christened Hâsoum, in the expectation that he would prove something human after all; but he always returned more disgusted than ever.

‘The old nurse and Goëtz only were in the secret; the other inhabitants of the castle had no doubt something took place in the tower, yet no one had sufficient courage to go and find out, and if by chance Vittikâb had encountered any one upon the staircase he would have cleft him to the chine.

‘For twelve years things went on in this manner, in which period expeditions were organised against the castles of Triefels, Haut-Bar, Fénétrange, and many others, for in these unhallowed days all the landed proprietors in the chain of the Vosges and Mont Tonnere waged perpetual war.

‘Vittikâb succeeded in all his undertakings, but to what purpose! If in returning from the chase he happened to remark the beautiful trees around, he would think, “All these lovely woods will revert to my cousins.” Did his serfs come with their tribute of corn, barley, oats, hay, fowls, butter, or eggs when the rent was due, instead of being satisfied he would think, “My cousins will be rich.” Had he made a successful foray, and returned with plunder, he would hold aloof from his jolly captain, Jacobus, and his reiters. Alone in the rear of the party, pale and worried, he would mutter between his clenched teeth, “Must I still risk my neck to benefit Geroldsek or Dagsbourg, and fill my coffers for them to empty?” So thus the older he grew the more the world troubled him.

‘And then from time to time, and particularly at night after Honeck’s departure, a fearful retrospection assailed him. He would recall to mind that during the burning of Landau, as an old smith endeavoured to escape, bearing his grandchild on a mattress in the expectation of saving him from the slaughter, he (Vittikâb) had commanded that both the fugitives should be thrown into the flames, and that the old man, standing erect in the midst of the burning piles, and holding his grandchild up at arm’s length to preserve him as long as possible, exclaimed: “Thou merciless Burckar, without feeling or compassion, thou shalt one day need pity, and shalt not receive it. Thou destroyer of children, thou shalt desire children, and shalt not have them. Cursed mayst thou be – ay, cursed as Herod!”

‘All this came back to him in the gloom – the old man’s face, his flashing eyes, the voice, and, notwithstanding his intoxication, he quailed and stammered out: “You lie, you lie! I shall have children!” And the old man seemed to reply: “It is thou thyself that liest; thou shalt never have children; they will be but monsters!”

‘Nevertheless this dream did not prevent the reflection that he was still young, and could, if he chose, marry a lady of noble lineage who would regenerate the tainted stock of the Burckars, and then he would have children born to him.

‘One evening, when he and his huntsman were busily employed in getting tipsy as usual – they scarcely spoke except with a shrug of the shoulders or a wink occasionally – Vittikâb, cold and reserved, was listening to an owl which was hooting at regular intervals in a neighbouring loophole. Suddenly starting from his reverie he said: “Tomorrow morning early you shall saddle a pair of horses, and we will ride together. You understand?”

‘“For hunting?” asked Honeck.

‘“No, to see the Roterick at Birkenstein at the other side of the Losser.”

‘He was silent and Honeck, bowing, said:

‘“Good, my lord; it shall be done.”

‘But he did not quite comprehend the Wild Huntsman’s meaning, for the barons of Roterick had been enemies of the Burckars for centuries, and hitherto Vittikâb, too far distant to molest them, had treated them with contempt.

‘You must know, M. Théodore, that the barons of Roterick belong to the old nobility of Germany. They were really more noble and more courageous than the Burckars, but poor and ruined. These barons had always been deceived and despoiled by the Burckars without ever having been conquered by them. They had defended their religion against the Saracens, and their mother country against the Turks, the Spaniards, and Italians. They had joined the crusades, and in the taking of the Holy Sepulchre, and the emperors too, at any time when they found it necessary to avenge an insult or to defend their ancient rights against any one, no matter who.

‘The Burckars all this time remained in their native fastnesses; they laid hands upon everything that came in their way; and the Roterick, on their return from their distant campaigns, would always find that these robbers had taken a corner of a wood, a valley, a pond, or some villages. This made them very angry; they disputed, fought; but as people are usually weakened on their return from a campaign, men and money both wanting, the Roterick could not fight it out, and the Burckars remained masters of the possessions they had annexed.

‘Thus it came to pass that the Roterick were spoiled most completely, and the Burckars, who always stood in fear of them, could not get rid of them by fair means, so had finished by burning their château of Birkenstein.

‘After all this you can imagine the feelings of the last Roterick for the last Burckar, who he declared was nothing but a bandit. Vittikâb, on his part, treated the other as a beggar, a “tatterdemalion”, because he was really very poor, and his ancient castle was built in the side of the mountain, where it lay surrounded by palisades, and the whole place looked more like a half-burnt farm than the residence of a noble family.

‘But all this did not detract from the pride of the owner, who was as haughty as if he had a thousand retainers at his back, and while he bestrode his old pony with his sword buckled on his thigh he looked down upon Vittikâb with great disdain. He lived wretchedly, it is true, with only his daughter Vulfhild and his old squire Péters; the rents of a small village and a little hunting scarcely sufficed for the requirements of the occupants of the castle; but inasmuch as the blood of the Wild Huntsman was thin and vitiated, so much was that of the Roterick pure and good. Throughout Germany it was said, “Roterick has rich blood. Burckar’s has a wolfish tinge.”

‘Vittikâb knew that very well; he had for a long time thought of this subject, and had taken his resolution to have children with human faces, to marry Vulfhild, and to give the old baron every satisfaction that he might demand.

‘He said nothing of all these resolutions overnight, but left home very early next day with Honeck for Birkenstein. Roterick, wearing a red leather cap, looked tall, thin, and worn, and had clear grey eyes; his hair was white as snow, but he was still upright and stood firmly, notwithstanding his great age. Roterick was at the door of the old castle; the arch stood out against the clear sky; the walls at the other side had fallen down; he was gazing with pride upon his heather when Vittikâb and his huntsman made their appearance. At first his indignation knew no bounds. He signed to them not to approach, and old Péters ran up with a halberd, but Vittikâb appeared as one who had come to repair the ill-usage his ancestors had committed, and to form with the Roterick a lasting alliance. The old noble, astonished at such proposals, permitted the Burckar to enter the courtyard.

‘He and Vittikâb then entered into the armoury, the only chamber which had escaped unhurt in all the pile, and held a council for two long hours.

‘Goodness only knows what the wild count promised the old baron. He promised, no doubt, all that he would have exacted had he been capable and powerful enough to demand his rights, sword in hand: the rebuilding of his castle, the restitution of his domain, his stables, and his pack of hounds. That must have been so, for at the termination of the conference they were reconciled.

‘Vittikâb, accompanied by the baron, then went to visit Vulfhild, who occupied a moss-grown tower, and amused herself in working tapestry in the company of two old women. Notwithstanding the sinister appearance of the Burckar, the daughter of Roterick consented to become the mistress of the Veierschloss, and permitted the Wild Huntsman to kiss her white hands.

‘But one thing is very certain – that on his return the Count Vittikâb rode with loose rein, and looked twenty years younger; his pale cheeks glowed once more, he laughed loudly, and in a clear strong voice he addressed himself to his companion, saying: “Zaphéry, all goes well. We shall have children this time – proper children. We will bring them up for hunting – ha, ha! they will have long arms and hairy, but they will be men.”

‘“I quite believe it, my lord,” replied the other without the least understanding what his master said.

‘“Yes,” said Vittikâb, “the old Burckar race is not extinct. The Geroldsek and the Dagsbourg shall never handle the gold of the Virimar; they shall never hunt our game nor mount our horses.”

‘And, rising in his stirrups, he threw his arms aloft, and his long sallow face beamed with enthusiasm; he uttered cries of triumph which echoed through the woods for an immense distance.

‘Honeck had never seen his master so joyous but on one occasion previously, and that was at the assault of Landau, when he scaled the walls and cut off the lance-points with his battle-axe like grass. He was terrible in his joy!

‘But as they drew near the Veierschloss he became more grave, but was quite as happy. He blew his horn as a signal to the retainers to let down the drawbridge, and the pair entered the castle.

‘In the courtyard they found Captain Jacobus, Lieutenant Krapt, and many soldiers. Vittikâb, ere he dismounted, addressed them all in a pithy speech thus: “I wish you all to understand that I, Vittikâb, Count and Lord of Veierschloss, and the noble lady Vulfhild of Roterick, are affianced, and that the marriage will be celebrated in three weeks from this day. I wish all around me to be happy as on an occasion of a victory and a distribution of spoil. We shall not stint the wine. He who will not rejoice will deserve to be hanged, and he who gainsays what I tell you will have to settle accounts with me. So make yourselves happy. I desire it.”

‘He regarded the astonished assembly with a piercing gaze, and then hastened up to the gallery amid shouts of “Long live the count! Long live Vulfhild!”, cries which have been in use for centuries to toady those who are masters.’

At this point the old forester paused; he knocked the ashes from his pipe and placed it on the window-sill to cool. Then after a pause, during which he gazed at me with favour, he said: ‘M. Théodore, I am sure that you have never brought tears to the eyes of any human being. I can say as much for myself too, although my hair is white and my life is almost sped. That is why we are so quiet and calm in the middle of the night, that is why nothing troubles us: we have placed our hopes in Providence. The spirit of darkness may hover around us as he pleases; he cannot take possession of our hearts, he cannot inspire evil thoughts in us.

‘But, M. Théodore, every one is not so. If the spirit of darkness has no power over the good man, he has a fearful influence upon the wicked. His heart is an open dwelling for him, it is his house of call, his place of amusement, and his dwelling. Thus when a bad man looks at you, you can see behind his eyes that wicked being who goes and comes at will, who watches you and seeks to discover the least sign of yielding, that he may destroy you. The face of great sinners is like the reflection of this terrible fiend. The worst of all that is, that once this being has established himself he is never content; the master of the house may well condemn himself; he may, indeed, cry for pity, and exclaim, “I did not intend to do so”; from the moment that he has become bound to him he must obey him.

‘Now this was just Vittikâb’s case. He had committed every crime, save one, the greatest of all, from which he had shrunk hitherto; but, as is always the case, the devil must have his way after all.

‘That day, from the return of the count until midnight, the Veierschloss resounded with shouts, drinking-songs, the clinking of goblets, as if it were a regular tavern. Six casks of wine were broached in the courtyard; every one could draw for himself and drink his fill.

‘Soon nothing could be seen along the ramparts, in the corners, on the steps in the old galleries, or anywhere, but retainers, soldiers, huntsmen stretched like logs right and left, with extended limbs and purple faces, hanging lips, flask in hand, dead drunk. That is how they celebrated the engagement of Vittikâb in a manner worthy of him.

‘While these things were taking place in the lower part of the Veierschloss, Goëtz, Hâsoum’s guardian, was growing very old and worn out in the Martens’ Tower, like an old snail in his shell; he asked himself: “What was going on yonder in the castle? What was making them all so jolly? Had they won a battle, and got plenty of loot?” And the old man listened, but did not know what to think of it all. For twenty years he had known everything connected with the castle from tower to basement. He could distinguish the head of the sentinel upon the outworks, the passage of the soldiers through the yard, in the galleries, on the staircases. He knew, by intuition almost, every brood of rooks or owls in the ramparts, the openings they frequented for their morning fights, the crevices in which they built their nests, and the number of their young. And this sharpness of hearing increased in proportion as his power of vision diminished, as it had done during the last years; and he had no resource, as in past days, in walking upon the battlements at night and keeping watch, gazing far away into the mountains, the dells, the rising ground in the distance, the clumps of trees which he had seen more closely in happier days, the tracks he had followed, the springs at which he had quenched his thirst.

‘Goëtz was almost bald; there scarcely remained a lock of hair on his head, and that was white as snow; his features were shrunken, he was obliged to close his eyes in any strong light, and his eyes were now generally half shut. His hands, formerly so muscular, were now weak, and the blue veins stood up prominently in them; his knees were “shaky”; he spoke with effort, and scarcely addressed more than a few sentences to Hatvine during the day, and occasionally a few words with Vittikâb, when the Wild Huntsman came up to the tower.

‘But he become fonder and more attached to the unfortunate Hâsoum; he loved him as his own child; he looked upon him as almost beautiful, and every night he ascended to the highest storey of the tower to look at him as he lay asleep. “Poor thing,” he thought, “descended from such an illustrious stock, and from such a famous race, your father detests you; but I love you, for you have no faults. You are strong, and if strength of mind be wanting, it will come sooner or later, perhaps when old Goëtz shall have passed away, and had no opportunity to instil it. You do not talk, ’tis true; you are dumb, but your eyes can speak, and they tell me that you love me. Ah! how I love you too! But I am growing old, and when Goëtz shall have departed what will become of you, dear child, what will become of you, what will they do to you?”

‘The poor old man was touched by his own thoughts; a tear ran down his cheek; he brought a heavy heart away with him, and he who in former days had been no better than a Burckar, he who imbrued his hands in blood at Trèves, at Lutzelstein, and Landau, and who cared little for God when he was well and strong, now prayed and invoked a blessing upon Hâsoum.

‘So on that evening Goëtz wondered why they rejoiced, why did they sing, what extraordinary event had happened, and why Hatvine had not told him that morning, when she brought him his breakfast, what it was all about. But she could not have told him, because Vittikâb and Honeck had not then returned; nevertheless this reflection disquieted him.

‘As night fell the castle became quiet, and silence supervened. Some embers still glowed upon the hearth, and Goëtz, seated with his back to the wall, with bowed head and closed eyes, began to doze.

‘At length, about eleven o’clock, the sound of the trumpet of the watchman passed over the lake like a sigh; the echoes of the Howald awoke for an instant, and all was quiet.

‘Goëtz roused himself, and was about to retire; he was in the act of lighting his torch when he fancied he heard something stealthily approaching.

‘“It is Vittikâb,” he muttered; “he is coming now.”

‘In fact, in a moment or two steps were heard ascending the staircase, and the count appeared, his visor thrown open, his stooping shoulders clad in a sort of cassock of red leather; his dagger was suspended at his thigh.

‘“Where is Hâsoum?” he demanded.

‘“He is asleep, my lord,” replied Goëtz, pointing to the floor above.

‘“Good,” replied Vittikâb.

‘And, turning, he glanced round the terrace, which was not his custom; he then entered, drew the bolt, and indicating the bench near the oaken table, said rudely to the old man: “Sit there!”

‘Goëtz obeyed wonderingly, for this was the first occasion during twenty years that Vittikâb had visited him sober. He was calm, cold, and gloomy.

‘What passed between those two Heaven only knows. That it was something important was evident, for about an hour afterwards they went out together upon the battlements. The Burckar was pale as death; his nose seemed to curve over his lips; his chin was firmly set. Goëtz was bare-headed; the two grey tufts of hair bristled with fear; his eyes were suffused with tears. The moon shone brilliantly in the blue vault of heaven, bringing out the heavy masonry of the battlements in strong relief. At the angle of the great staircase above the darkened courtyard stood Vittikâb, his hand upon the hilt of his poignard. He turned sharply round, and said in a stern voice: “You have heard what I say?”

‘“You shall be obeyed, my lord,” replied the old man in the same mysterious accents.

‘The count then descended, and Goëtz, supporting himself by the balustrade, regarded him for a few seconds with dim eyes; then, when his master had disappeared, he clasped his hands upon his head with a gesture of indescribable agony, and re-entered the tower, moaning aloud, but stifling the sound as much as possible for fear of awaking Hâsoum; but he could not altogether stifle the utterance of his grief, and he trembled from head to foot like a leaf. Fortunately his unhappy charge slept soundly, for all day he was continually moving about, climbing from beam to beam up to the roof of the tower a hundred and twenty feet high, and gazing through its narrow loopholes upon the surrounding country, the lake, and the fertile valleys beneath. His whole life consisted in this. He slept well. Goëtz might sob and groan as much as he chose.

‘You will very likely think it odd, M. Théodore, that in the midst of all the preparations which were being made for Vittikâb’s wedding no one troubled about Goëtz, and that he was completely passed over in silence. But there was a Higher Power at work, and the hour was approaching.

‘Early next morning Vittikâb sent thirty of his retainers in various directions to hasten the coming of the carpenters and other workmen from fifty villages round; others to hasten up vendors of silks and satins, cooks and confectioners from Strasburg even, or from Spires and Mayence. Some carried invitations to the margraves, counts, and barons of the Rhenish Provinces, the Meuse and the Moselle.

‘Jerome de Spire, the celebrated architect, came about two days afterwards, and set about constructing immense arcades above the grand courtyard, which was to serve as a banqueting-room at this Balthazar’s feast, and from that time nothing was heard but the grating of saws and the sound of blows of hammer and hatchet.

‘The surrounding woods, now filled with woodcutters, resounded day and night with the noise of falling trees and the grinding of the wheels of the waggons drawn by oxen three abreast, and almost crushed by the weight of the enormous trunks.

‘Then scaffolding was erected around the walls, cranes rose up from the tops of the towers, with their ropes and pulleys to hoist up the beams to the ramparts, and the ant-like crowd of workmen worked the levers, turned the cranks, screw-jacks, quarried and fixed the stone-blocks in their places.

‘The foundations were soon fixed, and the arcades quickly sprang up upon them.

‘But in all this bustle perhaps the man most occupied of all was Zaphéry Honeck, for if the count was anxious to show off his new buildings, he would be still more celebrated for his great hunting exploits.

‘Now Master Honeck, as chief huntsman, was charged with this part of the entertainment. The count had placed all the hounds and huntsmen at his disposal.

‘Honeck was in the enjoyment of such a mission; for he was the most skilful hunter of his time, notwithstanding his habits of drunkenness and gluttony.

‘Without loss of time he collected his force of prickers and set off to the mountains with the view to track the animals to their lairs, so that each part of the forest might be thoroughly explored, and recommended that they should follow up the herds of wild-boar or wolves rather than isolated animals, “for,” he said, “to set two hundred men and three hundred dogs upon the trail of one animal is like throwing a net to catch one fish; every man must, at least, have one chance of distinction.”

‘So the day of the feast drew nigh.

‘Frequently, at night, Honeck, tired out and covered with mud – for he was obliged to follow his game even into the marshes of the Losser – often when returning thus serious and thoughtful he would hear Vittikâb cry out: “Hollo, Zaphéry! Zaphéry! You pass one like an arrow. Come here.”

‘The huntsman would then ascend, and the Burckar, showing him the arcade, would say: “That is getting on well, is not it?”

‘Then taking him by the arm, he would display the rich stuffs from Flanders, the gold and silver ornaments piled up in the great hall to be put in position on the last day before the fête. Honeck, who was thinking only of the game, would reply: “Ah! oh! Beautiful! Splendid!” till Vittikâb got him upon the subject of his hunting by explaining: “Well, but you have told me nothing about your hunting; are you contented?”

‘Then Honeck would brighten up, and reply: “Yes, my lord, yes, I think all goes well.”

‘“Good, good,” Vittikâb would reply; “that is all I desire to know; I have no time to go into details. I depend upon you.”

‘Instead of putting himself out and commanding his dependant, he had become suddenly a pleasant companion, and, indeed, he ought to have been, for he had all he wanted, and whatever he wanted done appeared to do itself, as it were.

‘Meanwhile the wedding-day drew nigh; the alterations were all finished, and the work of decoration was begun.

‘There never had been such a beautiful autumn as that year; the sun shone brightly, and generally in a cloudless sky. Women and children, summoned from the neighbouring villages, carried boughs and moss to the castle to cover the walls, for green is always pretty; it is the colour which attracts our eyes most, and in which Providence has clothed the earth.

‘Above the arcades some workmen were stretching silken coverings and draping them with flags, and others set out the tables beneath. The principal gateway, the drawbridge, and the whole frontage of the ramparts were clothed with firs, the tops of which reached almost as high as the embrasures. The gloomy Veierschloss had never presented such a sight; it had become like Vittikâb, cheerful and smiling; the nest of the sparrow-hawk is lined with moss, as is that of the warbler.

‘But what was the use of all this decoration when the fiat had gone forth?

‘Two days before the wedding-day, one morning when Honeck was putting his game-bag over his shoulder in anticipation of the hunting-party, the door of the room opened, and the under-keeper, Kaspar Rébock, appeared. Rébock had passed the night in the forest. He was a true hunter, and all real huntsmen are like hounds, they never leave a trail until they are actually obliged; they frequently pass two or three nights in the wood with only a crust of bread in their wallet. So Rébock entered, covered with mud to his shoulders.

‘“You here!” exclaimed Honeck, who was impatient to be off. “You have tracked a slot, and you come to make your report. All right; we can talk about that this evening.”

‘“That’s true, Master Honeck,” replied the other, “I have come to talk to you about a trail, but I have never seen the like of it before.”

‘He opened his wallet and produced some grass covered with moss, upon which was the impression of a long narrow paw, with four claws in front, and another at the side. Honeck perceived at a glance that it was something out of the common, but he said nothing, and taking the tuft from Rébock he took it to the window in order to see it better. Rébock, leaning upon his staff, gazed at him steadfastly. For some minutes Honeck examined the impression steadily; at length he said: “Yes, this is something rather unusual. At first I fancied that Blac or Spitz was playing you a trick, but they are not sharp enough to place the claws in this way on the toes. It must be really the slot of some animal. It might be that of an Alpine bear if all the claws were in the same direction, but to tell you the truth, Rébock, I do not know what it can be.”

‘And he looked at the under-keeper, whose face beamed with self-satisfaction.

‘“Where the devil did you find this?” said Honeck. “Come now, sit down and tell me the whole history of it.”

‘They seated themselves at a corner of the table, and Rébock, quite delighted at having discovered a slot which Master Honeck could not recognise, plunged at once into the details of this astonishing discovery. He said that on the previous day, between nine and ten o’clock, when following up the trail of the deer, he noticed this impression upon a crab-tree, and at once suspecting some practical joke, he knelt down to examine it more closely, as he was convinced it was the track of no ordinary animal. Then, leaving the deer to take care of themselves, he followed his new trail, which led him from the high ground of the Kirschberg into the marshes of the Losser, and lost itself in the mud. That, in his ardour, he had pressed on, and had advanced as far as the pollards which lined the bank of the stream, but there he lost his boots, and the ground giving way beneath his feet, he was obliged to return and make a dètour round the marsh so as to strike the trail at the other side. Unfortunately the marshes of the Losser are nine good miles in circumference, and one cannot make very rapid progress when one is obliged to seek a trail in the reeds and rushes, so it had occupied Rébock five hours in getting round, and it was only at the farther side in the heath in the Hasenbruck that he had fortunately succeeded in finding the trail ascending towards the rock of Trois Epis.

‘One thing surprised Honeck very much, and this was that the huntsman informed him that he had passed a woodcutter’s fire on the way, and had noticed that the animal, instead of avoiding it as all wild animals do, had actually stopped beside it and walked round it, leaving traces of his large paws firmly printed in the sand alongside the thick boot-prints and sabots of the woodcutters; and, finally, he had halted within a few paces of the fire, so the depth of his foot-marks was easily recognised.

‘“Are you quite sure that the fire was actually burning?” inquired Honeck.

‘“I placed my hands over the embers,” replied Rébock; “they were quite warm then, and as the animal had been there long before I came up, the fire must have been burning brightly when he reached it.”

‘“This is very strange,” said Honeck: “very strange indeed.”

‘He had good reason for his surprise, for even the fiercest of the forest animals are afraid of fire, so this one must have appeared more ferocious than all the rest!

‘Rébock said, in continuation, that he had kept on the trail, and about seven o’clock in the evening he had reached the plateau of the Trois Epis, and after a long quest he had discovered the animal’s lair, which was a cavern in a recess, deep and dark, between the rocks. He had not dared to enter for fear of those terrible claws, for had he discovered the animal he would have been doubtless torn to pieces, an opinion which Master Zaphéry fully endorsed.

‘Such was Rébock’s narrative, and we can imagine how glad Master Honeck was on the eve of the grand hunting party to hear of such a novelty.

‘“Good,” he said, rising; “very good indeed. I will go and investigate this. But mind, Rébock, say nothing about this to any one. If it be large game like the bear, the boar, or stag, we shall get him right enough. But we must leave to the count the pleasure of the surprise. Everybody must be astonished, margraves, burgraves, and all, so that they may go back to their homes and report that we have game here such as exists nowhere else.”

‘“You may rest assured, Master Honeck,” replied Rébock, “that I shall hold my tongue. If my superiors are content, that is quite enough for me.”

‘He then retired to get some rest, and Zaphéry set out upon the trail at once. He remained out all day. It was only at nightfall that he returned to the Veierschloss. He had not only verified Rébock’s account, but had discovered further proofs that the animal was of a nature very different from all others in that region in his resting-places, his retreats, his cunning, his habits and instincts. What could it be? Whence did it come? How was it that it had never been previously observed in the Howald? How had it been able during all these years to roam about and satisfy its hunger by preying upon the inhabitants of the forest without leaving the least trace of its existence? This was what puzzled the huntsman, and he could not fathom the mystery. But his business was to be able to set the hounds on the track of this beast, and to astonish Vittikâb’s guests with something unusual.

‘“What a hunting party we shall have! What a hunt! Fifteen herd of deer, twelve packs of wild boars, six litters of wolves, with foxes and hares ad libitum, besides this beast, of which no one has ever seen the like.”

‘Thus did Honeck reason as he approached the Veierschloss with hasty strides. From a great distance he could perceive the grand entrance open, and the courtyard lighted up with torches. Many noble personages, the counts of Simmeringen, of Loetenbach, and Triefels had arrived, accompanied by their numerous suites, and the domestics of the castle standing in the open air ready to conduct them to their several apartments, and to supply them with refreshment according to Vittikâb’s orders.

‘Zaphéry Honeck made his way through the assemblage, and succeeded in obtaining a morsel of food and a cup of wine before he ascended to his bedroom to sleep and to prepare for the fatigues of the next day.

‘Now, M. Théodore, you can understand the astonishment of the landgraves, the burgraves, and margraves of the district when they heard that the “Wild Count” was about to wed a Roterick. It was not only because he was old, grey, and a twenty years’ widower that they were surprised, that he only cared for hunting and pillage, and that he got drunk regularly every day, but they were chiefly astonished that Vulfhild had consented, for the Rotericks had been enemies of the Burckars for centuries, and the races appeared irreconcilable.

‘But Vittikâb, in his pride, laughed at all these things; he was sure beforehand that everybody would come to his wedding; some out of curiosity, some for love of the good cheer, some to be present at the grand hunting display, and all of them so that at a future time it might be in their power to say, “We attended those sumptuous feasts of Balthazar – we never saw anything like them, and never shall witness such again.”

‘And Vittikâb was quite right.

‘When these grandees heard what great preparations were being made at Veierschloss, what an assemblage of architects, goldsmiths, velvet and silk merchants, and the most celebrated cooks in Germany, they all set out with their wives, children, and a grand retinue, falcon on wrist and dogs in leash. Every path in the Hundsrück was crowded with the guests, and the poor people of the neighbourhood followed them in their rags, as if performing a pilgrimage, hoping to pick up the crumbs from the rich men’s tables. Such was the condition of things when at the very last day of preparation Zaphéry Honeck came back from the cliffs of the Trois Epis.

‘Honeck in his little room above the guard-house could not sleep a wink that night; he was obliged to toss about from side to side on his bearskin rug; sleep would not come to him, because his brain was troubled with a thousand anxious and worrying thoughts which he could not banish from his mind.

‘In fact, Honeck had not a moment’s rest all night; the strange animal he had tracked would keep returning to his mind; sometimes he fancied he was tracing its slot in the marshes of the Losser, sometimes beneath the brushwood of the Howald, sometimes amongst the débris of the rocks of the Trois Epis, within two paces of the cave, and from this trail he sought to gather some idea of the strength and size of the animal. Then he wondered how it was that he never had noticed the trail before, as he had for the last thirty years been conversant with every trail in the forest, and in a twinkling could discover the trace of a squirrel amongst the leaves. He then came to the conclusion that this particular beast must have come from underground, or across the sea, or had arrived from Poland or some even more distant territory. He was very pleased to think that the count would have the first trial at this strange beast, and yet his heart smote him a little. But he got up, and leaning his elbows upon the window-sill, which was, like all the others, decorated with leafy drapery, he gazed into the dark courtyard, and inhaled the perfume of the leaves and flowers with which the walls were covered. Groups of workmen were dimly discernible upon ladders on the ramparts and in the galleries, fixing up flags, banners, and garlands. Torches, which appeared to move about like fireflies, illuminated the gloom for a moment, and then disappeared in the distance.

‘The courtyard, with its arcades a hundred and fifty feet high, now resembled an immense cathedral; the slightest sound was perceptible from one end to the other. Jérôme de Spire stood in the centre and gave his orders to press on with the work.

‘At length the grey dawn appeared; the sounds subsided one by one, the workmen left off, and old Jérôme retired. Then the huntsman sought his bed again and endeavoured to get some repose; this time he succeeded, and “slept like a top!”

‘Now he slept soundly and long; the sun was peeping through the banners and standards that decorated the great courtyard, when suddenly the blare of trumpets broke like thunder upon his ears and awoke him with a start. He raised himself upon his elbow and listened. From the courtyard, the bridge, the glacis, and the covered way arose a mighty murmuring as of the sea, and above this was heard the clang of arms, the neighing of horses, and the voices of the riders. Honeck comprehended at once that the fêtes had commenced. He got up, somewhat alarmed, and leaned out of his dormer window; the most dazzling sight met his gaze; all along the galleries, the stairs, and the terraces one could see nothing but rows of heads piled up one behind the other; on the right hand beneath were the reiters; on the left the Trabans, at the farther end and on a daïs was Vittikâb seated upon his throne.

‘The cuirasses and accoutrements of the reiters glinted like mirrors; at their head opposite the throne was the captain, Jacobus; his great plume almost touched the banners overhead, his scarlet cloak almost covered the crupper of his horse, and he looked at least six feet high.

‘All the reiters wore their long flat swords at their hips. The Trabans were clad in coats of mail; their headdresses, made like the heads of wolves, protruded over their foreheads, they held their maces at the shoulder; Krapt, in a similar dress, and wearing a leather helmet, stood opposite the throne with Jacobus, and looked quite as big, as proud, and as terrible as his companion.

‘Between the reiters and the Trabans, stretched from the principal entrance up to the steps of the throne, was a carpet of the skins of animals; bears, wolves, wild boars, badgers, stags, deer, and foxes, some of all kinds, and it was a magnificent display. Only Burckars could have produced such a carpet, for the furs extended two hundred paces in length and thirty in width across the paved court. Even Honeck was astonished. But what struck him more than all was Vittikâb himself seated on his throne.

‘Picture to yourself, M. Théodore, a kind of heathen deity, solidly made and thickset, his neck almost buried in his shoulders, full of fierceness, strength, and arrogance; a sort of wild joy in his expression which seemed to say, “I am the most terrible deity of all.” Picture such a being, with a wolfish head, seated on high in a massive iron throne of ancient make, clothed in the robes of Herod, his beard falling over his chest, and wearing the diadem of the Wild Huntsman upon his short red hair. That was just the sort of being Vittikâb appeared.

‘He had dressed himself in the state clothes of his great-grandfather, Zweitibolt, and so old that they were as stiff as pasteboard, and the red velvet was scarcely perceptible beneath the gold lace; epaulets of old-fashioned pattern drooped below his shoulders; his cuirasse of silver curved outwards between the epaulets; upon this cuirasse thick chains of gold rattled; a species of tunic of wild-boar skins reached below his hips, and his sandals were laced up with embroidered straps which were continued up to the knee. He held a mace, spangled with diamonds, in the shape of a sceptre; his crown sparkled on his forehead like a cluster of stars.

‘Honeck, while looking down upon all this display of arms and grandeur, upon the banners and decorations, and the hundreds of nobles and ladies assembled beneath, said to himself, “Truly the Burckars are a mighty race; they are a great people superior to all these nobles here assembled as the oak is above the birch.” And he felt a reverence for his master such as he had never before experienced, and he could almost have worshipped him.

‘Thus while the huntsman for the space of half an hour remained gazing in ecstasy, suddenly the master of the ceremonies, Erhard, clothed in a long tunic of grey plush, carrying a small ivory wand, advanced gravely between the reiters and the Trabans to the steps of the throne; then, turning round, he uplifted his wand with a most important air. Immediately the trumpets blared forth, and from the farther end of the temporary hall advanced a knight holding his lady by the hand. The lady’s train was so long as to necessitate its being upheld by a foot-page as she advanced. When they had reached the foot of the throne the trumpets ceased, and the major-domo cried out in a voice as hoarse as a crane in a fog: “The high and mighty Margrave Von Romelstein and his noble spouse!”

‘Then Vittikâb descended three steps, while the margrave and his lady ascended to meet him, and Jacobus and Krapt, standing right and left, bowed humbly, lowering their weapons with a haughty grace that was magnificent to behold. Vittikâb, who was in his glory, smiled graciously; then the trumpets sounded again, the margrave, his lady and child, descended and passed up into the right-hand gallery.

‘For three mortal hours this ceremony was prolonged; the trumpets sounded every moment, a gentleman and lady advanced, the major-domo proclaimed their names and titles, and Vittikâb descended two, three, or four steps, according to the rank of those presented. Then the trumpets sounded again, and that was all.

‘“Well,” thought Honeck, “if this is going to last all day I will have a stoup of wine meantime.”

‘He had made this observation about a hundred times, when a tremendous noise was heard in the borders of the forest where the poor people were enjoying the scraps of the entertainment.

‘“Long live Roterick! Long live Vulfhild! Long live the lovely maiden!”

‘These cries came nearer and nearer, and were prolonged by the echoes of the Howald. Shortly afterwards the rapid trot of a cavalcade was heard, and the challenge of the advanced sentinel. The uproar gained strength every moment.

‘Honeck, now very much excited, leaned half out of a window, and as he did so the escort clattered over the bridge; then came the noise of wheels, then the sound of hoofs upon the pavement was heard, and the trumpets sounded.

‘The news travelled along the galleries, terraces, and all over the immense building. Every one rose and leaned forward to gaze upon the bride-elect.

‘But Honeck paid no attention to these things. He looked down when the two first trumpeters appeared, advancing slowly, and sounding the fanfare as they marched, with distended cheeks; then appeared a long file of white horses, caparisoned with golden trappings, and preceding a purple daïs, which the huntsmen recognised as having been pillaged by the Burckars at Trèves from Bishop Werner twelve years previously; four tufts of ostrich feathers waved at the corners; the fringe descended to the ground, and the handles were of solid silver.

‘Beneath the canopy Vulfhild was seated on a magnificent throne.

‘At length the cavalcade entered, headed by the ancient Roterick, whose armour and tall red crest betokened nobility. You may imagine that cries of “Long live Roterick! Long live Vulfhild! Long live the Burckar!” resounded through the hall.

‘Vittikâb rose, triumph beaming in his eyes and in his face; his beard bristled with pride. He descended from his throne, hastened towards his bride with the quick light step of a wolf without looking to the right or left, without noticing the salutations he received. In a second he had reached the triumphal car, and his long arms, from which dangled his brocaded sleeves, were extended beneath the daïs; he lifted Vulfhild like a swan in his long hairy hands, and deposited her gently on the ground.

‘Then all the assembly were able to see her as, tall, lithe, and proud, she stood clothed in a dress of dark green velvet, the boar’s head of the Burckars embroidered on her corsage, and her magnificent auburn hair, curling in long ringlets over her snowy neck, transfixed with a golden dart. Every one admired the strings of pearls which fell in folds over her rounded bust, her high wide forehead, her aquiline nose, her great grey eyes, her thin lips, and her firm chin. She was just the wife for the Wild Count.

‘Vittikâb smiled without speaking, and led Vulfhild to his throne, in the midst of a storm of applause. He placed her upon a seat on the left of his throne, and standing up with his hand upon the shoulder of the young girl, who appeared honoured by his touch, he cried out in a loud voice, like thunder rolling amid the storm: “Behold the wife of the fortieth descendant of the Burckar, Vittikâb the Wild Count, Burgrave of Veierschloss, Margrave of Howald and Hasser; evil to him who condemns him!”

‘He then sat down with a wild, shy air, and the whole assemblage was agitated like leaves in a storm. A dozen Trabans, the wolf’s head badge on their foreheads, the skin falling down to their waists and over the cruppers of their horses, and wearing cuirasses of ox-hide, though with legs and arms naked, advanced to the foot of the throne. They carried straight, wide-mouthed trumpets about six feet long, the red pennon fluttering almost to their stirrups, and, turning their faces towards the assembly, they played the hymn of Virimar, an air which went back to the time when the Burckars were living in the marshes of the Losser – an air so wild and terrible that your hair would stand up upon your head had you heard it; it was called the Marseillaise of the Wild Count, and was never played except on the occasion of the marriage of a Burckar, or when they went into battle. When it was sounded even the wounded got up and began to fight anew; it was enough to make one’s flesh creep!

‘When the music had ceased the silence became oppressive. Vittikâb and Vulfhild rose up and descended from the daïs; they then advanced slowly between the ranks of the reiters and the Trabans; the doors of the two side-galleries were opened at the same time, and all the nobles, and their ladies, the barons, margraves, and burgraves got up and followed the Wild Count in the order of precedence. The entire cortège passed before Honeck and ascended the great staircase which led to the banqueting-hall.

‘Honeck then roused himself as from a dream, and was about to retire, when, raising his eyes for a last look around, he perceived above the platform a white, pale face looking out of a bay-window. The distant features seen through an opening in the roof of the extemporised building, and in relief against the sky, had something weird about it, and the huntsman stayed to regard it more steadfastly. He then recognised old Goëtz, but how changed! his thin cheeks, his hollow eyes; he was quite upset at the sight.

‘“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, “how old the poor fellow looks! and yet Hatvine always said that he was wonderfully well preserved notwithstanding his great age. However, there is the fact! such a brave hunter too, a good man, and one who twenty years ago could run like a stag through the forest. Well, Honeck, my lad, perhaps in fifteen or twenty years you will be so yourself, an old owl nailed upon the barn door!”

‘Zaphéry was right. Goëtz had grown old, very old, since the last visit of Vittikâb. There are weeks sometimes which count like years!

‘However, the sight of the old huntsman had suddenly reminded Honeck that the chase was to take place the next day, and thinking that all these grand personages whom he had seen would look to him on this important occasion, he was much troubled in consequence of misgivings that he would not justify the confidence placed in him by his master, and the enthusiasm which at the same time even gave him hopes that he had done better than usual. “How fortunate it is,” he thought, “that we have a strange animal to hunt! After such grand ceremonies as these it is only right that we should have something better than wild boars and stags; we wanted some rare beast which had never been seen in the Vosges and in Hündsruck before; and now Saint Hubert has sent it.”

‘Instead of losing his time gossiping with his friends from the Triefels, Geroldseck, and Bamberg, as he would have done at any other time, he went to seek his assistants to couple the hounds and to choose the relays for the hunt in the direction of the Losser and of the cliffs of the Trois Epis. And while all along the galleries of the Veierschloss was heard the clinking of glasses, goblets, and cups, mingled with drinking songs and shouts of laughter, and while all the guests of the Wild Count, as well as the reiters, Trabans, and other retainers, were giving themselves up to festivity, he thought of nothing but the responsibility of his hunting, and took all his measures with that view. He was thus occupied for the rest of the day, and even during part of the night, but then everything was arranged and the triumph of the Burckar assured.

‘It was a goodly sight next morning to behold the grand courtyard of the Veierschloss before the departure of the hunting party, the long ranks of the most beautiful horses in Germany, brought even from Poland, the least of which was worth its weight in gold to the Wild Count; it was goodly to see them waiting by the wall in a long line extending from the bottom of the court almost up to the grand entrance, neighing, champing their bits, looking from one to the other impatiently, and shaking their heads with sudden jerks. It was indeed a fine sight.

‘And then the dogs coupled up in leashes of six, eight, and ten; these terrible beasts, with tawny hides, large flat heads, yellow eyes, long backs, and trailing tails, regular wolf dogs, yawning widely, stretching themselves, extending their paws, and uttering melancholy and sinister howls – they were worth seeing.

‘Behind them came the huntsmen clothed in leather, their nervous legs encased in gaiters with bone buttons, their felt hats ornamented with a heron’s plume at the back of the head, the double-coiled horn worn crosswise, the leashes wound round their arms as far as the elbow, and their cowhide whips ready for use in the other hand.

‘Further still, the beaters, the margraves, burgraves, landgraves, and all the gallants, sturdy as oaks, magnificently dressed in their masters’ liveries, held the magnificent horses by the bridle, for in that age it was the ambition of their masters to surpass each other in the quality of their horses.

‘Every moment the impatience became greater, the horses grew restless, the dogs strained at their leashes, and howled dismally. A few blows of the whip imposed silence for a few seconds, but they soon afterwards began again as loudly as before.

‘Honeck walked up and down, his great red whiskers bristling with agitation, gazing at the gallery every moment. The quivering of his eyebrows seemed to say, “Come along, come along! The dew is passing off, the sun is rising, the scent will not lie; he is late.” Then, addressing the huntsmen, he said: “Yokel, haul in that leash. Must I tell you for ever that the longer your leash the less power you have over the dogs? Kaspar, is that the way to carry your horn? If you think to gain distinction that way you are very much mistaken.”

‘And he resumed his promenade, muttering to himself. At length, about seven o’clock, the great door of the state apartments opened widely. All the guests in hunting costume came forth along the gallery, Vittikâb at their head.

‘He alone of all had retained the ancient hunting costume: the vest of thick leather, the tunic of buckskin; his legs were naked; he had also resumed his iron headpiece with the peak behind. He seemed glad, and the wine-drops glistened in his great tawny beard. At his right hand advanced the lovely Vulfhild, holding her head as erect as a white eagle, while Vittikâb, with his thick neck and high shoulders, looked more like an old “lammergeyer” which appears to laugh as he darts from his rocky perch to make sure of his prey.

‘As he descended the grand staircase he saw his dogs and horses over the balustrade, and cried out: “Honeck!”

‘“My lord?’ replied the huntsman, advancing with head uncovered, and the plumes of his cap sweeping the ground as he came forward.

‘“What have you got for us, eh?” asked his master in a good-humoured tone. “You have not forgotten that we hunt today with the best sportsmen of the Black Forest, the Ardennes, and the Vosges, our rivals and our masters?”

‘He said this in politeness, looking, as he spoke, towards the forest margraves and landgraves, such as the ancient Hatto, the Triefels, Lazarus Schwendi of Haut-Landsberg, and others who were renowned in hunting, and who were flattered by this compliment from a Burckar. Honeck bowed and said nothing. Vittikâb resumed: “Yes, we shall have critics this time, so speak out. Can you promise us game worthy of our guests and ourselves?”

‘Then Honeck, standing upright, replied gravely: “My lord, I can dare to promise you that the chase shall be a worthy one. St Hubert has sent us a quarry worthy of the race of Burckar and their noble guests.”

‘He did not wish to anticipate events, believing that the surprise should be pleasant and sudden. Everybody thought that he referred to some wild boar of more than usual size, and Vittikâb, smiling, said: “Very good; since it is so, go you and sound the departure yourself; that shall be your recompense. Now, gentlemen, to horse!”

‘All the guests immediately descended into the courtyard; some assisted the ladies to mount, and then sprang upon their own horses. Then each one took his place, Roterick and Vulfhild in the first rank, Vittikâb in front to lead the party. Honeck, on horseback, stood on one side to witness the passage of the cavalcade; the huntsmen brought up the rear with the hounds.

‘When Master Zaphéry saw that all was in order he sounded the departure as he and Vittikâb only could sound it. The Veierschloss and the mountains rang out like bells, and the distant echoes replied. The cavalcade set out amid the baying of the packs.

‘But something very strange occurred – an incident, M. Théodore, which should have caused the spectators to reflect, for it was a warning such as Heaven sends us on great occasions. It was fated that the Burckar should be punished, and so a token was sent beforehand, as every one remembered afterwards, and confessed that there is no such thing as chance.

‘Now as Vittikâb, the best horseman of his time, and who all his life had been accustomed to mount untrained animals, was about to cross the bridge, his horse stopped short.

‘This at first astonished his rider, for the horse was a well-trained animal which he had ridden frequently, and had himself chosen it for this occasion. That is why he wished to go forward quietly, but the horse would not stir. The count then spurred him fiercely, but the animal only reared and tried to unseat his rider, and the entire cavalcade pulled up to avoid the plungings of the animal. Vittikâb became white with rage, and with his strong hand he reined the animal back on his haunches, and made him stand almost upright, so that the count’s plume nearly touched the teeth of the portcullis; then, bending forward upon the animal’s neck, like the wolf he was, the Burckar drove his spurs into his side with all his force, and now the furious animal darted out like a thunderbolt, and all the rest followed.

‘Those who stood beneath the drawbridge between the bays of the guardhouse saw nothing but a confused assemblage of horses, waving tails, and hoofs on the pavement, with long robes fluttering about like flags. That only lasted for a second or two between the walls of the outworks, but it was a terrible sight, and long afterwards, in the midst of the howling of the dogs and the braying of Honeck’s horn, the noise made by the galloping of the hunting party over the bridge was heard a long way off, like the noise of a hundred hammers beating on an anvil.

‘Then Honeck in his turn spurred his horse forward, and the other hunters followed on foot, dragged onward by their dogs.

‘Once outside the glacis the cavalcade ascended directly to the opposite side of the Gaisenberg so as to reach the wood. Robert, the under-huntsman, was galloping alongside, having received orders to put the hunters on the tracks of the animal, and to sound his horn three times when all was ready so as to warn Honeck to uncouple the hounds.

‘Zaphéry led the pack through the valley on the right; by crossing the lake he ought to gain the defile of Sureaux, then the marsh of the Losser, whence the trail was visible in the direction of the plateau of Trois Epis.

‘The weather was lovely; not a cloud crossed the vault of heaven. The impatient “yapping” of the hounds could have been heard a mile away. Honeck, galloping about all this time, returned to view the hunting party; it was visible above the brush-wood and briars like streamers of many colours; it was a beautiful sight but in a few minutes it disappeared beneath the trees. Then the huntsman followed up the pack more closely, and exclaimed: “All goes well, all goes well; in an hour or two we shall have good fun. Now go ahead and hold your tongues, you brawling curs; a little patience, and you will have plenty of time to howl; those which cry the most do not always do best when it comes to the scratch!”

‘The dogs, of course, redoubled their cries in proportion as they descended into the ravine.

‘Honeck had never been more certain of his game; but when at the end of a quarter of an hour the light entered the defile, and the dogs having reached the weeds at the Losser scented the trail, they recoiled unmistakably, for the joyous yelping was all at once changed into the wildest howling, the most plaintive and furious lamentations possible.

‘Honeck, then, hearing that death-cry, was afraid that the animal had got away out of reach before the hunters had taken up their positions.

‘“The fiend choke you!” he exclaimed. “Have you never seen a trail before? Will you be silent, you brutes? Don’t you see that the animal has cleared off?”

‘But his indignation was thrown away. The dogs, head in air, and with melancholy eyes, continued their lugubrious howling. Zaphéry was a true huntsman, and now his training told. As he could not strike the hounds for fear of making them more noisy still, he ran as fast as he could before them, and cried out to his assistants: “Hold hard!”

‘Then the dogs, believing that he was pursuing the prey, kept silence, and tugged at their leashes furiously. At that moment the three notes from Rébock’s horn were heard from the mountain, and Honeck, delighted to perceive that the hounds turned to it at once, let them go! In two seconds there was not one of them left in the valley. To the right and left upon the rocks in the brushwood and the briars, three or four hundred feet up the hills, noses to the ground, the pack ran, glided, sprang forward, and rushed upon the trail.

‘“I hope the animal did not get away before the men took up their stations,” said Honeck.

‘All the rest hoped so too.

‘Zaphéry, in order to see the assemblage and to assure himself that the relays were all in order, hurried up to the top of the flat rock which overlooked the chain of hills. When he reached the summit he was able to see for an immense distance around over all the adjacent hills, the valleys, the rocky peaks, the plain of the Palatinate on his left as far as the eye can reach, and he was enabled to take in at a glance the conditions of the hunt.

‘The foremost hounds had already passed the cavern of the Trois Epis, a proof that the animal was no longer there. But before coming to a definite conclusion the huntsman waited a few moments. He could perceive some hundreds of yards to the right the long line of the Burckar hounds carefully following the trail. Thus, one after the other, they reached the cavern into which the animal had entered, then coming out again they hastened with new ardour up the other slope of the mountain.

‘Honeck, who had not a doubt respecting the departure of the animal, sounded his horn to warn the hunters. He had scarcely sounded it when Vittikâb himself replied from the depths of the defile, and he could perceive the Wild Count leave his post at full speed and follow the tracks of the hounds. Two or three “old hands”, Hatto de Triefels, Lazarus Schwendi, Elias Rouffacher, followed the count with loose rein; then Vulfhild flew out in her turn like an eagle with outstretched wings, her long habit floating behind her, and by degrees all the rest took the same direction.

‘Honeck then seeing the pack start off again, sounded the departure for the first relay, and the chase was continued by all together, sixty dogs in front and fifty horses behind. It was a marvellous sight.

‘Having gazed at it for a few moments, and muttering to himself that his master was the first hunter in the empire, who could tell at a glance the true trail, and knew how to follow up the animal closely, Honeck’s attention was naturally directed to the chase itself, and he was then quite confounded at its extraordinary tricks, resources, and tracks, different from any other animal he had ever seen.

‘In the first place he noticed that the animal never ran in the open; he always kept in the woods, and more in the skirts than in the interior. This was easy enough to perceive, for every moment he saw the file of dogs enter the forest, then come out again without penetrating beyond the borders, and the hunters followed in the same direction. He made up his mind more than once that the beast, when he found himself hard pressed, had climbed up a tree, for sometimes the dogs would rush together as if sure of their trail, then suddenly stop, turn round, and howl, noses in air, and once again resume their course.

‘After two long hours, after many turnings and windings, the chase suddenly broke into greater speed than ever – they actually flew over the ground. Vittikâb was in front, in the direction of the hills bordering the plain. Then the sound of the horns grew more and more faint to his ears, and the upshot of it was that he found himself alone in the forest; now and then at long intervals the horn of the Wild Count was heard borne upon the breeze. At this time the troop was more than three miles beyond the Losser; two relays placed upon the Gaisenberg had been of no service.

‘The day got hotter and hotter, and Honeck on his rock, not able to distinguish anything farther, was about to descend the mountain when he heard the sound of the count’s horn far in the distance. He would have known it anywhere. He listened and continued to gaze intently; the baying of the dogs came up to him in a confused echo; then suddenly, at half a league distance, Vittikâb appeared alone, passing beneath the forest trees like a lightning flash. He sounded his horn again and again, a full clear note which made the woods ring again. Then some other horns more distant still took up the signal; the entire company was now returning by an immense circuit.

‘“I’ll bet that Vittikâb is alone on the trail,” thought the huntsman, “although the devil himself could not distinguish anything at this distance. I am proud of that master of mine!” And what made him more glad, and went to his heart, was that the note of the old hound Tobie, which possessed the best nose in the pack, rose at regular intervals, and from time to time with this music were blended the notes of the horn, from which one could understand that the count was encouraging the old hound.

‘In fact, some minutes afterwards Zaphéry perceived them passing one after the other two miles away behind the rocks, but Tobie was not unaccompanied; more than a hundred dogs were galloping with him, and so close together did they appear from the height on which Honeck stood, that they seemed as if he could cover them with his hand.

‘A moment after old Hatto, and then Rouffacher, some other gentlemen, and then Vulfhild also, passed in view. At the head of a second band was old Roterick, easily distinguished by his height and the red plume in his cap.

‘“Ha, ha,” laughed Honeck to himself, “the hunt is up yonder!”

‘And he became more and more attentive. As he continued to gaze, forgetting the heat, suddenly close to him, from the breach of a rock covered with briars, he distinguished the voice of Rébock calling him.

‘“Master Honeck!”

‘Turning round, he replied, “Ah, is that you, Rébock?”

‘“Yes, it is I; I tethered my horse to yours. What a fine head of game we have given them, eh? He may boast of giving them a pretty race.”

‘“Yes, yes,” replied Honeck brusquely, “I have seen it all. It is a fine run. I cannot be of the party myself, but it makes one proud of such a master as the Wild Count.”

‘“That’s true, Master Honeck, but we may have something to fear for not having run down the beast.”

‘“Well, we can run him down tomorrow, but what we can have a long time afterwards is not worth the trouble of getting. Hush! The chase is up again. Listen!”

‘Vittikâb’s horn was heard like thunder in the valley. Honeck leaned over; he could not distinguish the count, but the whole pack were streaming towards a deep gorge five hundred or six hundred feet below the plateau; that was the Gorge of the Iron Pot, which is so called in consequence of its being terminated by a black rock a hundred feet high, flat at the base, and rounded something like a pot. The gorge itself, of horseshoe form, is bounded on two sides by sharp-pointed rocks. Honeck, seeing the hounds in that direction, exclaimed: “We have him now. He has gone to the Pot with a vengeance.”

‘“Master Honeck,” said Rébock, “I wish I could think so, but, saving your presence, the game is too sharp for that.”

‘“It is a strange beast which is unacquainted with the country,” replied Zaphéry, as he got down from his position.

‘Rébock followed him but half convinced. At the foot of the elevation they mounted their horses, and traversing the ridge, in five minutes they came within fifty yards of the precipice. Honeck, who was particularly elated, dismounted, and, throwing the bridle to Rébock, said: “There now, d’ye hear? The struggle has commenced. What did I tell you?”

‘And without waiting for a reply he ran through the brushwood, while Rébock dismounted in his turn, and hastened to tie up the horses. That done, he rejoined Honeck as he ran.

‘A tremendous uproar arose from the gorge; it was easy to perceive from the howling, the gnashing of teeth, and the cries of every kind that came up from the abyss, that the whole pack was engaged, and that the prey was making a fight for it.

‘The two huntsmen, quivering with excitement, advanced to the edge of the precipice, and leaned over to get a view of what was passing beneath, but they had scarcely glanced downwards when they became deadly pale. They had seen something which they had never seen before, M. Théodore, and which, please God, will never be seen again.

‘Now just picture to yourself an immense gorge a hundred feet wide and sixty feet deep, studded with sharp rocks, glistening like bronze, whence trickled a stream of water cold as ice all the year round. If you looked to the bottom of the gorge you might discover a pile of sharp rocks, amongst which a stream of water threaded its way over its black pebbles.

‘It was not a particularly inviting spot. There was no moss nor grass, nor any such thing; it was a regularly forsaken place. Occasionally a young wolf or a fox might be taken here, but old ones never, because once they got out of it they would never return to it again.

‘Well, fifty or sixty yards to the left Rébock and Honeck perceived in a sort of niche a creature something like a bear, about six feet high, which was neither man nor beast, for he had two legs as we have, spare limbs, and slightly crooked; he had claws, and if he had arms, he had also hands an ell long; if his head was something human, with eyes in front, he had the ears of a wolf, a flattened nose, a hare-lip which displayed a row of immense white teeth; he possessed an abundance of yellow hair, which fell from his shoulders like a mane. And if this creature was naturally repulsive, we can fancy his appearance when he was engaged in fighting the hounds, knocking them over with terrible force with a heavy branch torn from an old oak that overhung the precipice, rolling his eyes, drawing back his lips so as to display his teeth, and shouting in accents as melancholy as the winds of winter on the Krapenfels. We can picture the astonishment of the two hunters at the sight.

‘As for the dogs they were furious, for you know that in proportion as dogs are taken by surprise the more savage they become when they do attack the prey, and that is why they did not give way before the monster they now encountered.

‘It was a terrible struggle. The dogs sprang for fully fifteen feet upon the game, sometimes singly, sometimes together, and one could see nothing but their foaming jaws as they jumped up; then they fell back again, their ribs broken, their heads crushed, or dragging their paws after them, and howling so as to be heard a league away. Some of them, stretched almost lifeless in the stream, turned their heads to lap up a few drops of water; some merely gazed furiously round without having courage to renew the attack; some behind ran up with widely opened jaws, and without taking warning they pressed forward into the mass only to be flung back senseless and dying.

‘The monster showered his blows like a woodcutter at work. Nothing could be seen but his two great shaggy arms in the air, his great head beneath his hair leaping from his shoulders at every stroke; his legs, torn and bleeding, were planted firmly apart.

‘Honeck noticed that some old hounds were crawling stealthily along the rock instead of coming up boldly to the attack; above all, he noticed old Tobie, which, as usual, was about to take the game by the rear; he saw him crouch three or four times, then, as if he was sensible that the distance was too great, he would crawl a little nearer, his eyes glistening like two candles; he was at the same time glad and nervous, for to see the monster knock over his best hounds, and not to be able to tell whether it was a man or an animal, brought the perspiration to his temples; but he did not dare to wish him dead.

‘In the midst of all this tumult Vittikâb’s horn was heard. He entered at the other end of the defile, and the sound, prolonged by the instrument, echoed to the very bottom of the abyss, and overcame all other sounds. Very soon the gallop of his horse was heard amid the notes of his horn, but at the supreme moment, and as he arrived in front of the rock, a short hoarse sound made itself heard, and all were silent; nothing but the din of the combat was audible.

‘Honeck and Rébock turned round, and what did they behold? Vittikâb at the bend of the gorge pale as death, struck dumb, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring, clutching his bridle with both hands; his horse reined back on his haunches, his haunches almost touching the ground. The Wild Count’s face – that terrible face – expressed such dismay that the hunters could almost have believed they were gazing upon a ghost, and they both experienced a chilling of the blood as they looked.

‘Just then the animal uttered a terrible cry of distress; they say that he called Vittikâb to his assistance, but too late! Tobie had by this time approached near enough; he leaped at the animal’s throat, and the monster, hurled from his position, fell amongst the other dogs; then nothing was visible except his long arms endeavouring to defend himself from their devouring jaws; then they sank down, and nothing could be heard but the deep groans of the quarry and the grinding of teeth!

‘Then a terrible cry echoed through the valley, and Vittikâb, his battle-axe raised, fell upon this mass of dogs like a lion amongst a pack of wolves, felling, maiming, and killing them with a fearful fury. In a second he was covered with the blood and brains, and, bending from his saddle, he seized the hunted animal by the hair, and, lifting him like a doll at arm’s length, he exclaimed in a voice choked with emotion: “Hâsoum, Hâsoum, it is I!”

‘But he only spoke to a corpse – a bleeding, lifeless body, which lay with open mouth and hanging limbs. He saw it was dead, and Vittikâb, with a sob, placed it on the saddle-bow before him, and galloped homewards at full speed.

‘Honeck and Rébock looked at each other, they were so faint and pale that they hardly recognised each other.

‘“Let us to the castle,” said Honeck, shivering.

‘They hurried to their horses and mounted quickly; then, taking a short cut, they descended the hill at speed in the direction of the Veierschloss.

‘By the time they reached the foot of the mountain they could perceive the count already far along the path by the lake still holding the dead body across the saddle, while he himself, bending forward with tightly closed lips and cap awry, was staring between his horse’s ears, riding like the wind amid the brushwood. Far, very far, behind him came his guests, the long habits of the ladies and the parti-coloured dresses floating in long rows; they had seen the Wild Count pass, and the consternation was universal.

‘Just about the same time Captain Jacobus was keeping guard at the sally-port. He was walking up and down with his hands behind him when he perceived in the valley, just under the shade of the hill, all the long file of riders galloping round the lake, enveloped in a cloud of dust.

‘“Hullo!” he said; “the hunting party is returning; the wedding feasts will soon commence.”

He descended to warn the Vachlimeister, and he scarcely had had time to lower the drawbridge when Vittikâb came thundering over it, crying out: “Goëtz! Let Goëtz be brought hither at once,” in a voice which reminded them of the war-cries of the Burckars.

‘All the galleries and staircases were covered with reiters and Trabans as if in expectation of an assault; they saw the count leap from his horse and place the dead body on the table of honour in the midst of the flowers and the gold and silver plate. His face was so careworn they scarcely recognised him.

‘Two or three reiters hastened at once to the Martens’ Tower to fetch Goëtz at the same time that Honeck, Rébock, Hatto, Lazarus, Schwendi, Vulfhild, Roterick, and fifty others dashed through the gateway. In an instant all the castle was aroused. Cries, lamentations, and the clashing of arms echoed under the vaults of the castle.

‘Vittikâb, standing by the table, threw his cap beside the body of the monster; then, with his red hair clinging damply on his forehead, his teeth clenched, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, looked round upon the assemblage as each individual was bending down to gaze upon the monster, and having seen him turned away shuddering, and asked the other whether they had ever beheld the like.

‘The count, deadly pale, paid no attention to them; he looked without appearing to see anything; his lips trembled. But the sound of footsteps on the great staircase aroused him; he turned round suddenly, and as old Goëtz, leaning over the balustrade with staring eyes at sight of the monster, remained motionless and horror-stricken, the count exclaimed: “You have not obeyed orders, Goëtz.”

‘“My lord, I could not,” replied the old man; “it is too much for me; I let him go. I thought the Lord would have pity on the poor creature. Do with me as you will!”

‘“He had pity, then,” said the count. “Yes, the servant had pity, the father had none.”

‘And seeing the surprise of his guests, he added in a harsh voice, as he pointed to the body: “That is my son; that is the last Burckar. Twenty years ago I imprisoned him in the Martens’ Tower. I was ashamed of him. I wished to kill him. I confided my wishes to this old servant, but he begged and prayed me, on his knees, to relent. I was deaf to his entreaties. The old servant had more pity than the father, and he let him go free.”

‘As he spoke thus the Burckar was like a madman. The whole assembly grew pale.

‘“Listen,” he continued; “it is to my shame. I thought, ‘He has wolf’s ears. The Burckars are no longer men; they are wild beasts. I must hide this one.’ It is Providence who has punished me thus. For twenty years I have lived in the hope to have children. I murdered those of other people out of envy and jealousy. It was breaking my heart to let the old race die out. At last I thought of Roterick. You know, Roterick, I went to see you, and I was cheerful. If I could I would have strangled you, for I am a Burckar, and hate you and yours! But I laughed. I promised everything, I gave up everything. I wanted your good blood. I wished for children with human faces – real children – and then gave orders to kill the other one.”

‘As he continued to speak he roused himself more and more, and his thick tones became more distinct.

‘“It is horrible,” he said, as if speaking to himself, “a father putting his son to death through a feeling of pride. Ah, what a cursed being I am – cursed for evermore! Yes, it is horrible! Have you ever heard of a similar instance?” he exclaimed. “No, you never have heard anything like it; there has been nothing like it since the commencement of the world. That old man at Landau who is the cause of all this – ah, the wretch! If I could only see him roasting once again!”

‘And he then cried out at the top of his voice: “The priest spoke the truth!”

‘No one understood to what he referred when he spoke to his old henchman respecting Landau and the priest. Honeck alone could recall the circumstances. The face of the old man who was carrying his little grandson away upon the mattress passed before his eye like a lightning flash, and the image of the bishop Verner also rose up as he appeared cursing the Burckar, and exclaiming as he stood on the steps of the cathedral porch, with hands outstretched: “Cursed may you be! May the Divine vengeance fall upon you all! You are not men, you are monsters!”

‘Honeck recalled this, and he understood the speech of Vittikâb.

‘The Wild Count himself continued to speak, and even he was constrained to sob as he finished his address. It was terrible to see a man such as he weep. More than one of the spectators turned aside in dismay, but Vittikâb paid no attention to anything.

‘“I care not,” he exclaimed; “you men are all cowards. You are the cause of all this misfortune; you have left us to do all this, to rob and burn, instead of hunting us out like so many wild beasts. Yes, you are cowards; may you be all cursed as well as we, you wretches! Had you not been the cowards you are we should not have been as we are. But the lad here – what has he done that he should be devoured by dogs? Why should he have been shut up in the tower? Why does not Providence have pity upon the poor creature?”

‘And throwing himself upon the monster with outstretched arms, he burst into tears and exclaimed: “Oh, my poor child, you are suffering for the crimes of your fathers; you are suffering for me, for Rouch, for Virimar, for all our accursed race. Is it just? No, no; it is upon us, the real brutes, that the punishment should fall!”

‘For a long time he wept as if his heart would break. Several of the reiters, seeing their chief, man of iron as he was, so overpowered, went away, not wishing to witness his grief. But he, suddenly raising himself up, and looking round upon the astonished assemblage, exclaimed: “Have I wept? Vittikâb has wept! Oh! if I could exterminate you all to gain back one single day, I would never weep again!”

‘Though his eyes gleamed fire his limbs were cold. Then, passing his hand over his face, he cried: “Ah! if you could only have seen him fight! He was a true Burckar, a real Burckar – one against them all. When I saw him, although I quailed at the sight, I was proud of him; yes, I was proud! If I could only bring him back to life! He would be your chief!”

‘And raising his hands to heaven, he exclaimed: “Rouch, Virimar, Zweitibold, my ancestors, will you not come to revive him? Will you let the whole race die out?”

‘He uttered this bitter cry in tones audible even across the lake!

‘But the silence grew only more profound; no one moved; all were engrossed in expectation to see the old brigands emerge from their tombs to succour the monster before them; but after a pause Vittikâb, bowing his head, gazed intently at Hâsoum for a few seconds, and then said: “It is all over! This is how the grand old race of warriors dies out! They finish with a monster! Other families, the Foxes, the Geroldseck, the Dagsbourg, may live to inherit our spoils, the spoils we have won during the last thousand years. They may come now; they will no longer be affrighted by the cry of the wolf, which used to make them quail. That is all over now!”

‘Then, turning to his retainers, he said: “Trabans and reiters, take all you can find; this gold and silver, the treasure amassed in the caves of Virimar, all is yours! I give it you freely; take it away. What has been obtained by pillage may be pillaged again!”

‘Then waving his long arms over his head, he cried: “Now let the winds moan, let the night-birds croak; let the torrents rush down; let all the voices of heaven and earth recount, from age to age, this lamentable story! And when the peasantry, as they sit in the chimney-corner, shall hear these things they shall whisper, ‘There is the hunt of the Savage Count crossing the mountain, there are the horns sounding, the horses neighing, and the dogs following the trail of Hâsoum!’ They shall all hear it, and remember that Providence is over all, and does what seemeth Him good!”

‘Then he lifted the body, and clasping it tightly in his arms he ascended the grand staircase, passing all the assembly in silence. They watched him traverse the gallery and disappear in the cavern beyond.

‘Immediately the Trabans and reiters precipitated themselves upon the plate; they forced open the cave of Virimar, they loaded the horses, and fled away pell-mell. Margraves, burgraves, counts, barons, huntsmen, and beaters, even old Hatvine on her mule, and Goëtz made haste to quit the cursed place. After the lapse of an hour the Veierschloss was almost as deserted as it is at this day. Honeck alone had no desire to plunder, and remained in the courtyard, and fastened up the hounds, according to his custom as they returned to their kennels. He attributed all this evil to himself, and cursed himself for having ever conceived the idea of hunting any strange beast. He was attached to Vittikâb, and kept looking in the direction of his retreat as he thought of these things.

‘At length, no longer able to contain himself, he went up to speak to the count. He entered the room and beheld his master stretched upon the corpse of his son. For a long time Honeck did not venture to speak. Vittikâb did not stir, and it was not for a full half-hour that, hearing Honeck move, he rose, his face bedewed with tears, and said: “What do you want here?”

‘“Master, I have come to be with you.”

‘“Leave me!” replied the Burckar.

‘“Master,” replied Honeck, “all the rest have fled. I alone remain to serve you.”

‘“I have no need for service,” replied the count as he opened the door and pushed the huntsman out.

‘Honeck heard the bolts fastened, and then he descended. He encountered two dogs, which just then returned. He fastened them up in their kennels, and then he ascended to his room, took up his walking-staff, and departed. He thought to obtain employment easily enough as chief huntsman, for his accomplishments were well known in the entire district, but his heart was sad as he left the old castle of the Burckar where his youthful days had been passed, and where his forefathers for a thousand years had lived and died.

‘He proceeded at random without looking whither he went. At length, at nightfall, he passed near the village of Gaisenberg, and wished to gaze once more upon the old tower which he had so often saluted with his horn as he came from the Howald. He climbed up to the right above the lake. At the summit of the ridge, amongst the brushwood, he sat down on a rock, and rested there far into the night, with his walking-staff between his knees, not being able to make up his mind to descend the other side of the hill. The melancholy moon rose in the blue vault of heaven, silence fell around, and still he did not stir.’

‘“Behold, Honeck!” he muttered to himself; “look, there is your old home! Now you have quitted it, and who can tell if you will ever see it again?”

‘While Honeck was thus lamenting, suddenly flame burst out in the Veierschloss; at first in the hayloft belonging to the stables, and in the woodhouse at the end of the yard. Masses of thick black smoke, streaked with sparks, rose in dark columns, and as the night was perfectly calm this smoke extended itself like a pall over the building. Then the old beams and the dry woodwork of the ancient castle caught fire like straw; the flame gaining ground rapidly soon enveloped the high towers as well. The lake beneath reflected the glare of the conflagration, and the shadows of thousands of birds passed swiftly from the old building across the blazing pile.

‘Honeck comprehended in an instant that Vittikâb had set the castle on fire, and he did not move, knowing that he could be of no use. He kept gazing at the flames in dismayed silence; but his heart was wrung to hear the neighing of the horses which were in the stables, and the plaintive howling of the dogs which he had himself fastened up in their kennels; these sounds came up to him there in endless wailings, and he could picture their terrible sufferings in that still-increasing conflagration.

‘Honeck became mad, and remained in that condition I know not how long. One thing is certain, and that is that the poor woodcutters of Lembach found him, and that after a time, having recovered his senses, and taking all these lessons to heart, he relinquished the idea of becoming a huntsman again, and became a woodcutter at Homât in the environs of Pirmasens; he chose a simple and hard-working life, married the daughter of a woodcutter like himself, and had children by her.

‘I am descended from this Honeck.

‘As he had, doubtless, grave faults to expiate, but not sufficiently great to bring upon his descendants the fate of the Burckars, our family has been only afflicted by a kind of chronic infirmity. Every autumn one of us falls into a kind of trance, which lasts two or three days, which corresponds to the duration of the great hunt in which Hâsoum perished, and the burning of the Veierschloss.

‘And if you wish to hear the end of all this, M. Théodore, I may tell you that the Wild Count returns to earth in expiation of his crimes, and that he resumes in the Howald the chase of his son Hâsoum. This hunt starts from the Veierschloss, and thence into the plain of the Palatinate, makes the tour of the Hündsruck, including Mont Tonnerre; reaches the Vosges by way of Bitche, Lutzelstein, and Lutzelbourg; descends to the Jura, and terminates by plunging into the Lake.

‘But the most extraordinary circumstance connected with this is that the Burckar is accompanied by the souls of all the descendants of his former retainers. It comes upon you like a blast of wind, your spirit is swept away in a breath, your body sleeps while you are absent, tearing “over hill, over dale, through bush, through briar,” in the train of those terrible phantom dogs, blowing blasts on the horn enough to split your cheeks, and shouting like incarnate devils. You pass by lakes, rivers, mountains, in a dazed sort of way during the two or three days’ absence, and when you wake it appears to be a dream.

‘That is what I underwent while I was a youth, and that is what Louise suffers now. If you look upon her, there her body is, her hands clasped, as white as wax. You would take her for a saint in her niche. It would not be right that you should behold her; you are too young, otherwise you should see her, and would pray to her yourself, for the sleep resembles death.

‘The Burckar came to take her soul last night when those dogs began to howl so wildly. Where are they now? Oh! on the slopes of the Jura, in the gorges of the Vosges, in the recesses of the Black Forest – who can tell?’

Père Frantz ceased speaking, and I gazed on him stupefied at this strange recital.

‘I decided to tell you all this, M. Théodore,’ he said, ‘for fear you might entertain some unjust suspicions concerning us. You might have harboured some unjust thoughts about us, and I was distrustful about you on that account.’

‘Ah, Père Honeck!’ I exclaimed, ‘I never—’

‘No,’ he replied; ‘frankness above everything; mysteries are for scoundrels. When there is nothing to be ashamed of one can tell everything.’

‘Well, you are right,’ I replied, ‘and I thank you for your confidence. Your narrative carries a great lesson; it shows that if men can improve and get better by means of work and honest living, they can also descend to the level of the beasts by nourishing their animal passions. Those who think they can escape human justice, or overcome it, and commit crimes with impunity, find out their mistake sooner or later.’

The old keeper rose without replying.

Day was breaking, the dawn was streaked with rosy light, and the perfume of the woods enveloped all things around us. We went outside to inhale the fresh morning air. The birds were singing all around that house in the forest, and the sun was just peeping between the fir-trees.

‘Do you still find it necessary to leave us, M. Théodore?’ asked the old keeper.

‘Yes; if I could but remain, Père Frantz, I should be the very happiest of men, but I must go and work to gain my living. I have now laid in a good stock of subjects. I must set to work. Ah, if I were only rich!’

‘Well, then, come and lie down for a few hours. I shall not be sorry to have a little rest myself.’

He entered his room, and I ascended to my chamber. Two or three hours afterwards the old man came into my room, and seeing that I was awake, ‘Well,’ said he, ‘have you rested?’

‘Yes, Père Frantz, I think I have slept, but I am not quite certain.’

‘Ah, well!’ he said in a good-humoured tone, ‘all is for the best.’ Then, taking up my knapsack, he added, ‘We will have a biscuit and a glass of wine before you start, and then I will accompany you as far as the Three Fountains.’

As we proceeded along the gallery I experienced quite a sinking of the heart when I reflected that I should not be able to bid Louise farewell. Père Frantz divined my thoughts apparently, for, stopping at her door, he said: ‘Wait a moment.’

He entered the room; then returning, he signed to me to approach.

‘As you are about to leave us,’ he whispered, ‘come here; it is only natural, after all, that you should see her.’

I approached the bed and gazed upon Louise sleeping beneath the pretty blue curtains, as the old keeper had described her. She appeared to me to be more beautiful than I had deemed possible, and I then realised how deeply I loved her. After a pause the old man, who was close beside me, whispered: ‘When you reflect that her soul is not so far away, it is very strange indeed, is it not?’

And he gazed at me with eyes full of tears.

‘If her spirit were here,’ he continued, ‘Louise would wish you a pleasant journey and you would embrace her, no doubt. So kiss her now: there can be no harm in it.’

I pressed my lips tremulously upon the forehead of the fair young girl, and then, grave and thoughtful, with a sad and loving heart, I followed the old man and descended the steps of the old gallery for the last time.

After breakfast Père Frantz accompanied me as far as the Three Fountains. We were both greatly moved when the moment of separation arrived.

‘A pleasant journey, M. Théodore,’ said the old keeper as he clasped my hand. ‘Think of us sometimes. And if you ever come in this direction again remember the house of old Père Frantz.’

I could only reply with a warm grasp of the hand, a clasp such as one exchanges when one is bidding a friend an eternal adieu. Then without trusting myself to speak, for my heart was beating almost to suffocation, I took the path from the Three Fountains and plunged into the pine-wood. But after walking for five minutes, and finding myself alone, I began to think of all I had left behind me, of that peaceable existence in the midst of the forest, of the good old man Honeck, of Louise, my dear little Louise; and dwelling upon these things I could not restrain myself. I burst into a flood of tears.