title="[Pg 74]"/>

"Knapwurst?"

"You know; the little dwarf who opened the gate to us; a droll chap, Gaston, who is always to be found in the library bent over a book."

"So you have a scholar at Nideck."

"Yes, the rascal! Instead of staying in his lodge, where he belongs, he spends the whole blessed day shaking the dust from old family parchments. He moves about among the shelves like a cat, and he knows our history better than we do ourselves. He would like nothing better than to tell you his stories; he calls them chronicles. Ha, ha, ha!"

Hereupon, Sperver, exalted by the old wine, laughed for some moments, without knowing exactly why.

"So that is why you call this the Tower of Hugh the Wolf?" I resumed.

"Didn't I just tell you so? What are you so surprised at?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Yes, you are. I see it in your face. What are you thinking of?"

"It isn't so much the name of the tower that surprises me, as that you, an old ranger, who from a baby had never known any home but the fir-trees and crests of the Wald Horn and the gorges of the Rhethal, who would never sleep with a roof over your head in spite of all my father's urging, and who amused yourself roaming the paths of the Black Forest and revelling in the fresh air, the sunlight, and the freedom of a hunter's life, should be found here, after sixteen years, in this red-granite hole. Come, Sperver, light your pipe and tell me how it happened."

The old ranger drew a short, black pipe from his leather jacket, filled it leisurely, and snatching up a coal from the hearth, placed it on the bowl of his pipe; then, with his head thrown back and his eyes wandering over the ceiling, he replied thoughtfully:

"After I left your father's service twenty years ago, it was long before I could bring my mind to work for any other master, for I loved the General, and you, and your pretty mother, as I could never come to love others, not even the Count and my mistress Odile. So I took to poaching for a term of years, and found a living by any means I could, until one night the Count came upon me in the moonlight.

"He did not despise Sperver, the old hawk, the true man of the woods; and he said to me, 'Comrade, you have hunted long enough by yourself; now come and hunt with me. You have a good beak and strong claws, and you might as well hunt my game with my permission as without it.'"

Sperver was silent for some minutes; then he continued:

"I was getting old,—and the old falcons and hawks, having long swept the plains, end by settling down in the cleft of a rock to die. So it was with me. I loved the open air, and I love it yet; but now, instead of lying on a high branch at night and being rocked to sleep by the wind, I prefer to come back to my cover, quietly pick a woodcock, and dry my plumage before the fire."

Sperver was silent for some moments; then he continued:

"I still hunt as before, and afterwards I drink a quiet glass of Rudesheimer with my friends, or—" At this moment a shock made the door tremble.

"It is a gust of wind," I said.

"No; it is something else. Don't you hear a claw scratching on the panel? I think one of the dogs must have got loose. Open, Walden! open, Lieverlé!"

He got up, but he had not gone two steps when a formidable Danish hound leaped into the room and raised his fore-paws on his master's shoulders, licking his cheeks and beard with his long, red tongue, and whining with joy. Sperver put his arm around the dog's neck, and turning to me:

"Gaston," he said, "what man could love me as this dog does? Look at this head, these eyes, and teeth!"

He drew back the animal's lips and showed me a set of fangs that could have torn a buffalo to pieces. Then pushing him off with difficulty, for the dog redoubled his caresses, he cried, "Down with you, Lieverlé; I know you love me! Who would, if you did not?" He went and closed the door.

I never had seen a dog of such formidable proportions before; he measured nearly four feet in height, with a broad, low forehead and fine coat, a bright eye, long paws, broad across the chest and shoulders and tapering down to the haunches,—a mass of nerves and muscles interwoven,—but he had no scent. If such animals possessed the scent of the terrier, the game would soon be exterminated.

Sperver had returned to his seat and was passing his hand proudly over Lieverlé's head, while he enumerated the dog's fine points. Lieverlé seemed to understand him.

"Look, Gaston, that dog would strangle a wolf with a snap of his jaws. He is what you might well call perfection in the matter of courage and strength; not yet five, and in his prime. I need not tell you that he is trained to hunt wild boar. Every time we meet them, I fear for Lieverlé; he attacks them too boldly; he flies at them like an arrow. Beware of the brutes' tusks, Lieverlé, you rascal! It makes me tremble. Down on your back!" cried the huntsman; "down on your back!"

The dog obeyed, presenting to us his flesh-colored thighs.

"Do you see that long, white line, without any hair on it, which extends from his thigh clear up to his chest? A boar did that. The noble chap did not let go of the brute's ear, in spite of the wound, and we tracked them by the blood. I came up with them first. Seeing my Lieverlé, I cried out, jumped to the ground, and lifting him in my arms, I wrapped him in my mantle and brought him home. I was beside myself with grief. Luckily, the vital parts were not injured, and I sewed up the wound. God! how he howled and suffered; but at the end of the third day he began to lick the place, and a dog who licks a wound is already saved. Ha, Lieverlé! you remember it! And now we love each other, don't we?"

I was much moved by the affection of the man for the dog, and the animal for his master. Lieverlé watched him and wagged his tail, while a tear stood in Sperver's eye. Soon he began again:

"What strength! Do you see, Gaston, he has broken his cord to come to me,—a cord of six strands? He found my tracks, and that was enough. Here, Lieverlé! Catch!"

He threw him the remains of the kid's leg. The dog went over and stretched himself in front of the fire with the bone between his fore-paws, and he slowly tore it into shreds. Sperver watched him from the corner of his eye with evident satisfaction.

"Hey, Gaston," said the old steward, "if any one should order you to go and take that bone away, what would you say?"

"That it was a matter which required delicate manipulation."

We laughed heartily, and Sperver, who was stretched out in his red-leather armchair, with his left arm thrown over the back, one leg resting on a stool, and the other on a log that was dripping with sap and singing in the fierce flame, puffed blue rings of smoke to the ceiling with an air of supreme contentment. As for me, I was lazily watching the dog, when suddenly remembering our interrupted conversation, I began:

"Listen, Sperver! You haven't told me everything. Was it not because of the death of your worthy wife, my old nurse Gertrude, that you left the mountains to come here?"

Gideon looked grave, and a tear dimmed his eye; he straightened up, and knocking the ashes from his pipe upon his thumb nail, he replied:

"Yes, my wife is dead, and that is what drove me from the woods. I could not see the valley of the Roche Creuse without sorrow, and so I have