Her eagle eyes glowed and her long neck held her head splendidly high as she described great feats of courage and endurance or almost superhuman daring in aiding those in awesome peril, and, when she glowed most in the telling, they always knew that the hero of the adventure had been her foster-child who was the baby born a great noble and near the throne.  To her, he was the most splendid and adorable of human beings.  Almost an emperor, but so warm and tender of heart that he never forgot the long-past days when she had held him on her knee and told him tales of chamois- and bear-hunting, and of the mountain-tops in midwinter.  He was her sun-god.

“Yes!  Yes!” she said. “‘Good Mother,’ he calls me.  And I bake him a cake on the hearth, as I did when he was ten years old and my man was teaching him to climb.  And when he chooses that a thing shall be done—­done it is!  He is a great lord.”

The flames had died down and only the big bed of red coal made the room glow, and they were thinking of going to bed when the old woman started very suddenly, turning her head as if to listen.

Marco and The Rat heard nothing, but they saw that she did and they sat so still that each held his breath.  So there was utter stillness for a few moments.  Utter stillness.

Then they did hear something—­a clear silver sound, piercing the pure mountain air.

The old woman sprang upright with the fire of delight in her eyes.

“It is his silver horn!” she cried out striking her hands together.  “It is his own call to me when he is coming.  He has been hunting somewhere and wants to sleep in his good bed here.  Help me to put on more faggots,” to The Rat, “so that he will see the flame of them through the open door as he comes.”

“Shall we be in the way?” said Marco.  “We can go at once.”

She was going towards the door to open it and she stopped a moment and turned.

“No, no!” she said.  “He must see your face.  He will want to see it.  I want him to see—­how young you are.”

She threw the door wide open and they heard the silver horn send out its gay call again.  The brushwood and faggots The Rat had thrown on the coals crackled and sparkled and roared into fine flames, which cast their light into the road and threw out in fine relief the old figure which stood on the threshold and looked so tall.

And in but a few minutes her great lord came to her.  And in his green hunting-suit with its green hat and eagle’s feather he was as splendid as she had said he was.  He was big and royal-looking and laughing and he bent and kissed her as if he had been her own son.

“Yes, good Mother,” they heard him say.  “I want my warm bed and one of your good suppers.  I sent the others to the Gasthaus.”

He came into the redly glowing room and his head almost touched the blackened rafters.  Then he saw the two boys.

“Who are these, good Mother?” he asked.