“Oh, never mind!  It is not the name of the tower which surprises me.  What I am wondering at is, how it is that you, an old poacher, who had never lived anywhere since you were a boy but amongst the fir forests, between the snowy summits of the Wald Horn and the passes of the Rhethal—­you who, during all your prime of life, thought it the finest of fun to laugh at the count’s gamekeepers, and to scour the mountain paths of the Schwartzwald, and boat the bushes there, and breathe the free air, and bask in the bright sunshine amongst the hills and valleys—­here I find you, at the end of sixteen years of such a life, shut up in this red granite hole.  That is what surprises me and what I cannot understand.  Come, Sperver, light your pipe, and tell me all about it.”

The old poacher took out of his leathern jacket a bit of a blackened pipe; he filled it at his leisure, gathered up in the hollow of his hand a live ember, which he placed upon the bowl of his pipe; then with his eyes dreamily cast up to the ceiling he answered meditatively—­

“Old falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks, when they have long swept the plains, end their lives in a hole in a rock.  Sure enough I am fond of the wide expanse of sky and land.  I always was fond of it; but instead of perching by night upon a high branch of a tall tree, rocked by the wind, I now prefer to return to my cavern, to drink a glass, to pick a bone of venison, and dry my plumage before a warm fire.  The Count of Nideck does not disdain Sperver, the old hawk, the true man of the woods.  One evening, meeting me by moonlight, he frankly said to me, ’Old comrade, you hunt only by night.  Come and hunt by day with me.  You have a sharp beak and strong claws.  Well, hunt away, if such is your nature; but hunt by my licence, for I am the eagle upon these mountains, and my name is Nideck!’”

Sperver was silent a few minutes; then he resumed—­

“That was just what suited me, and now I hunt as I used to do, and I quietly drink along with a friend my bottle of Affenthal or—­”

At that moment there was a shock that made the door vibrate; Sperver stopped and listened.

“It is a gust of wind,” I said.

“No, it is something else.  Don’t you hear the scratching of claws?  It is a dog that has escaped.  Open, Lieverle, open, Blitzen!” cried the huntsman, rising; but he had not gone a couple of steps when a formidable-looking hound of the Danish breed broke into the tower, and ran to lay his heavy paws on his master’s shoulders, licking his beard and his cheeks with his long rose-coloured tongue, uttering all the while short barks and yelps expressive of his joy.

Sperver had passed his arm round the dog’s neck, and, turning to me, said—­

“Fritz, what man could love me as this dog does?  Do look at this head, these eyes, these teeth!”

He uncovered the animal’s teeth, displaying a set of fangs that would have pulled down and rent a buffalo.  Then repelling him with difficulty, for the dog was re-doubling his caresses—­