The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

all round. The passes of the Rhéthal, of Steinbach, Koche Plate, and of the whole line of the Black Forest are under our eye. Let the Jew pedlars and the dealers beware!’ And the noble fellows did what they promised. Hugh the Wolf was at their head. Knapwurst told me all about it sitting up one night.”

      “Who is Knapwurst?”

      “That little humpback who opened the gate for us. He is an odd fellow, Fritz, and almost lives in the library.”

      “So you have a man of learning at Nideck?”

      “Yes, we have, the rascal! Instead of confining himself to the porter’s lodge, his proper place, all the day over he is amongst the dusty books and parchments belonging to the family. He comes and goes along the shelves of the library just like a big cat. Knapwurst knows our story better than we know it ourselves. He would tell you the longest tales, Fritz, if you would only let him. He calls them chronicles—ha, ha!”

      And Sperver, with the wine mounting a little into his head, began to laugh, he could hardly say why.

      “So then, Gideon, you call this tower, Hugh’s tower the Hugh Lupus tower?”

      “Haven’t I told you so already? What are you so astonished at?”

      “Nothing particular.”

      “But you are. I can see it in your face. You are thinking of something strange. What is it?”

      “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 Rhéthal—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, Lieverlé, 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—

      “Down, Lieverlé. I know you love me. If you did not, who would?”

      Never had I seen so tremendous a dog as this Lieverlé. His height attained two feet and a half. He would have been a most formidable creature in an attack. His forehead was broad, flat, and covered with fine soft hair; his eye was keen, his paws of great length, his sides and legs a woven mass of muscles and nerves, broad over the back and shoulders, slender and tapering towards the hind legs. But he had no scent. If such monstrous and powerful hounds were endowed with the scent of the terrier there would soon be an end of game.

      Sperver had returned to his seat, and was passing his hand over Lieverlé’s massive head with pride, and enumerating to me his excellent qualities.

      Lieverlé seemed to understand him.

      “See, Fritz, that dog will throttle a wolf with one snap of his jaws. For courage and strength, he is perfection. He is not five years old, but he is in his prime. I need not tell you that he is trained to hunt the boar. Every time we come across a herd of them I tremble for Lieverlé; his attack is too straightforward, he flies on the game as straight as an arrow. That is why I am afraid of the brutes’ tusks. Lie down, Lieverlé, lie on your back!”

      The dog obeyed, and presented to view his flesh-coloured sides.

      “Look, Fritz, at that long white seam without any hair upon it from under the thigh right up to the chest. A boar did that. Poor creature! he was holding him fast by the ear and would not let go; we tracked the two by the blood. I was the first up with them. Seeing my Lieverlé I gave a shout, I jumped off my horse, I caught him between my arms, flung him into my cloak, and brought him home. I was almost beside myself. Happily the vital parts had not been wounded. I sewed up his belly in spite of his howling and yelling, for he suffered fearfully; but in three days he was already licking his wound, and a dog who licks himself is already saved. You remember that, Lieverlé, hey! and aren’t we fonder of each other now than ever?”

      I was quite moved with the affection of the man for that dog, and of the dog for his master; they seemed to look into the very depths of each other’s souls. The dog wagged his tail, and the man had tears in his eyes.

      Sperver went on—

      “What amazing strength! Do you see, Fritz, he has burst his cord to get to me—a rope of six strands; he found out my track and here he is! Here, Lieverlé, catch!”

      And he threw to him the remains of the leg of kid. The jaws opened wide and closed again with a terrible crash, and Sperver, looking at me significantly, said—

      “Fritz, if he were to grip you by your breeches you would not get away so easily!”

      “Nor any one else, I suppose.”

      The dog went to stretch himself at his ease full length under the mantelshelf with the leg fast between his mighty paws. He began to tear it into pieces. Sperver looked at him out of the corner of his eye with great satisfaction. The bone was fast falling into small fragments in the powerful mill that was crashing it. Lieverlé was partial to marrow!

      “Aha! Fritz, if you were requested to fetch that bone away from him, what would you say?”

      “I should think it a mission requiring extraordinary delicacy and tact.”

      Then we broke out into a hearty laugh, and Sperver, seated in his leathern easy chair, with his left arm thrown back over his head, one of his manly legs over a stool, and the other in front of a huge log, which was dripping at its end with the oozing sap, and darted volumes of light grey smoke to the roof.

      I was still contemplating the dog, when, suddenly recollecting our broken conversation, I went on—

      “Now,