I had leaned out of my window rapt in contemplation for more than a quarter of an hour when a hand was laid lightly upon my shoulder; I turned round startled, when the calm figure and quiet smile of Gideon saluted me with—­

“Guten Tag, Fritz!  Good morning!”

Then he also rested his arms on the window, smoking his short pipe.  He extended his hand and said—­

“Look, Fritz, and admire!  You are a son of the Black Forest, and you must admire all that.  Look there below; there is Roche Creuse.  Do you see it?  Don’t you remember Gertrude?  How far off those times seem now!”

Sperver brushed away a tear.  What could I say?

We sat long contemplating and meditating over this grand spectacle.  From time to time the old poacher, noticing me with my eyes fixed upon some distant object, would explain—­

“That is the Wald Horn; this is the Tiefenthal; there’s the fall of the Steinbach; it has stopped running now; it is hanging down in great fringed sheets, like the curtains over the shoulder of the Harberg—­a cold winter’s cloak!  Down there is a path that leads to Fribourg; in a fortnight’s time it will be difficult to trace it.”

Thus our time passed away.

I could not tear myself away from so beautiful a prospect.  A few birds of prey, with wings hollowed into a graceful curve sharp-pointed at each end, the fan-shaped tail spread out, were silently sweeping round the rock-hewn tower; herons flew unscathed above them, owing their safety from the grasp of the sharp claws and the tearing beak to the elevation of their flight.

Not a cloud marred the beauty of the blue sky; all the snow had fallen to earth; once more the huntsman’s horn awoke the echoes.

“That is my friend Sebalt lamenting down there,” said Sperver.  “He knows everything about horses and dogs, and he sounds the hunter’s horn better than any man in Germany.  Listen, Fritz, how soft and mellow the notes are!  Poor Sebalt! he is pining away over monseigneur’s illness; he cannot hunt as he used to do.  His only comfort is to get up every morning at sunrise on to the Altenberg and play the count’s favourite airs.  He thinks he shall be able to cure him that way!”

Sperver, with the good taste of a man who appreciates beautiful scenery, had offered no interruption to my contemplations; but when, my eyes dazzled and swimming with so much light, I turned round to the darkness of the tower, he said to me—­

“Fritz, it’s all right; the count has had no fresh attack.”

These words brought me back to a sense of the realities of life.

“Ah, I am very glad!”

“It is all owing to you, Fritz.”

“What do you mean?  I have not prescribed yet.”

“What signifies?  You were there; that was enough.”

“You are only joking, Gideon!  What is the use of my being present if I don’t prescribe?”

“Why, you bring him good luck!”