He drew his hunting-knife, and soon uprooted one of the monster’s tusks.  Depositing the precious relic in a hunting pouch he wore at his side, he mounted his horse, rather puzzled where to go.

“It is easier to get in this oaken field than to get out of it,” said our hunter, “but if the forest have an end, I’ll find it.  Now, my dear loitering friends, we hunt each other.”

Giving his horse the spur, and allowing the creature to choose its course, he called on the lagging hounds, and dashed away as rapidly as he had come.  The wood was light as ever, and here and there sunbeam lay, like a golden spear, along the ground yet the rich lustre of the sky, wherever it was visible the hum of numberless insects, the fresh flight of the awakened bird, and the freer and cooler breeze, warned the youth that sunset was near.  On went the noble steed, with steady step and trembling nostril while his finely veined ears spoke so rapidly that the rider could scarcely understand their language.  They passed through long lines of trees that opened into other lines, from one limited horizon to another, yet all was green before and behind, to the right and to the left, one interminable emerald.  The light turned from a rich gold to a golden red, and yet it played only on whispering leaves and on the long grass at their feet.  Still the youth felt no fear, but hummed some old ballad, or drew a lively peal from his horn.  He dismounted to refresh himself at a spring that had nestled among some rocks, and was murmuring there like a spoiled child.  Having cared for the gallant animal which had borne him so well, he stretched himself a moment upon the green bank.

“Ha! what is that!” he exclaimed, bending forward to listen; “a horseman?  Let him come; friend or foe, I shall be glad to see him.”

He was on his horse in a moment.  As he turned to look behind, he saw a gentleman, richly dressed, and admirably mounted, coming at full speed from another quarter of the wood.  The stranger was quite young, perhaps a year or two older than our hunter, but certainly not over twenty-three.  The youth knit his brows as the horseman approached, and eyed him keenly and sternly.  When within a few yards of the spring, the stranger dismounted and drew his sword.  The youth did the same.  His handsome features were now distorted with anger and disdain, and it was difficult to recognize in the fierce figure, that seemed the guardian dragon of the fountain, the laughing boy who sat there so quietly a moment before.  The stranger appeared to return the bitter hatred.

“I have found you, Gilbert de Hers,” he muttered; “your bugle has rung your knell.”

Gilbert replied but by a laugh of scorn, and the next instant their swords gleamed in the air.  But just as the two blades met with a sharp clang, there came stealing through the wood the mellow sound of a distant bell.  It was like the voice of an angel forbidding strife.  Those soft, lingering notes seemed to have won a sweetness from the skies to pour out upon the world, and, filling the space between field and cloud, connected for a moment heaven and earth—­for they wake in the heart of man the same emotions more perfectly felt in paradise.