Fritz groped his way to his pet and put his hand over his mouth, but it was too late.  The forest-keeper outside had heard the barking, and striking his musket upon the door, he asked, “Who’s there?”

It was now no use to keep silent and Fritz took it upon himself to answer.

“Good friend, we are three boys on our holiday journey.  We have been to Frankfort, and are on our way home to Michelstadt.”

“Who is in there with you?”

“Three working people who allowed us to take shelter here from the rain.”

The forest-keeper opened the door, struck a light in his lantern and stepped in.

“What brought you in here?” he asked of the three grown travelers.

“There is no need to ask.  You know that it has been raining,” replied the butcher-boy doggedly.

“Yes, but it is not raining now.  Go out of here!  You might set the cabin on fire, and then the woods would be ablaze.”

The triplets were ready in a moment’s time, and eager to go, but not so the others.

“The fire is out.  What is the use of moving on until daylight?”

“Because it is against orders to allow anyone to stay in this cabin.  Wake up your comrade, and all of you leave.”

This was a hard task, for the blacksmith was a sound sleeper, but by dint of calling and pushing they got him partly awake.

“What is it you want?” he said, looking sleepily at the forest-keeper.  “Go out of here.  There is no room for you.”

“Nor for you!  Up, up, and out!”

“Out in the rain?  No.  I will not go,” and he lay down again.

The other two drew him to his feet, and told him that it was the forest-keeper who was commanding them to leave the cabin.

“But where are we to go?” he asked.  “We cannot sleep out in the rain.”

“No, you are all to follow me to my house.  I can have an eye over you there, and it will be less of an anxiety than to leave you to yourselves in this cabin.”

They all passed out, the triplets with Pixy keeping close to the forester and his lantern.

CHAPTER XII

A WELL-SPRING OF PLEASURE

They walked what seemed to the boys a long distance through the forest.  The rain had ceased, and the moon was trying to shed its rays through thin clouds, but in the dense shade the only light was the little circle upon the moist earth, given by the small lantern.

After a time a voice cried, “Who goes there?”

“Hans Hartman, my good friend,” replied the forest-keeper.

“All right!” and another forest-keeper stood before them, much surprised to see seven instead of one.

“Have you captured poachers?”

“No, the older ones are gypsies,” for in the dim light of the cabin he was quite sure that they belonged to that army of rovers.

“Are we then so dark?” asked the basket-maker, amused at the mistake.