“Fritz,” said Sperver, “we are in the bed of the Tunkelbach.  This is the wildest spot in the Black Forest.  The end is a pit called La Marmite du Grand Gueulard, the muckle-mouthed giant’s kettle.  In the spring, when the snow is melting, the Tunkelbach hurls all its waters into it, a depth of two hundred feet.  There is an awful uproar; the waters dash down and then splash up again and fall in spray on all the hills around.  Sometimes it even fills the Roche Creuse, but just now it must be as dry as a powder-flask.”

Whilst I was listening to Gideon’s explanations I was at the same time meditating upon this dark and fearful glen, and I reflected that the instinct which attracts the brutes into such retreats as these, far from the light of heaven, away from everything bright and cheerful, must partake of the nature of remorse.  Those animals which love the open sunshine—­the goat aloft upon a high conspicuous peak, the horse flying across the wide plain, the dog capering round his master, the bird bathed in sunlight—­all breathe joy and happiness; they bask, and sing, and rejoice in dancing and delight.  The kid nibbling the tender grass under the shade of the great trees is as poetic an object as the shelter that it loves; the fierce boar is as rough as the tangled brakes through which he loves to run his huge bristly back; the eagle is as proud and lofty as the sky-piercing crags on which he perches as his home; the lion is as majestic as the arching vaults of the caves where he makes his den; but the wolf, the fox, and the ferret seek the darkness that conforms to their ugly deeds; fear and remorse dog their steps.

I was still dreamily pursuing these thoughts, and I was beginning to feel the keen air moving upon my face, for we were approaching the outlet of the gorge, when all at once a red light struck the rock a hundred feet above us, purpling the dark green of the fir-trees and lighting up the wreaths of snow.

“Ha!” cried Sperver, “we have got her at last!”

My heart leaped; we stood, closely pressed, the one against the other.

The dog growled low and deep.

“Cannot she escape?” I asked in a whisper.

“No; she is caught like a rat in a trap.  There is no way out of La Marmite du Grand Gueulard but this, and everywhere all round the rocks are two hundred feet high.  Now, vile hag, I hold you!”

He alighted in the ice-cold stream, handing me his bridle.  I caught in the silence the click of the lock of his gun, and that slight noise threw me into a tremor of apprehension.

“Sperver, what are you about?”

“Don’t be alarmed; it is only to frighten her.”

“Very well, then, but no blood.  Remember what I told you—­the ball which strikes the Pest slays the count!”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” was the answer.

He went away without further parley.  I could hear the splash of his feet in the water; then I saw his tall figure emerge at the opening of the dark glen, black against a purple background.  He stood five minutes motionless.  Attentive, bending forward, I looked and listened, still moving onward.  As he returned I was but a few yards from him.