The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

from? Who can tell that?”

      “Very well, you can’t. But when does she come within sight of Nideck?”

      “As I told you, ten days before Christmas, at the same time every year.”

      “And how long does she stay?”

      “A fortnight or three weeks.”

      “Is she ever seen before? Not even on her way? Nor after?”

      “No.”

      “Then we shall have to catch her, seize upon her,” I cried. “This is contrary to nature. We must find out where she comes from, what she wants here, what she is.”

      “Lay hold of her!” exclaimed Sperver; “seize her! Do you mean it?” and he shook his head. “Fritz, your advice is good enough in its way, but it is easier said than done. I could very easily send a bullet after her, almost at any time; but the count won’t consent to that measure; and as for catching in any other way than by powder and shot, why, you had better go first and catch a squirrel by the tail! Listen to Sébalt’s story, and you shall judge for yourself.”

      The master of the hounds, sitting on the table with his long legs crossed, fixed his eyes mournfully upon me, and began his tale.

      “This morning, as I was coming down from the Altenberg, I followed the hollow road to Nideck. The snow filled it up entirely. I was going on my way, thinking of nothing particular, when I noticed a foot-track; it was deep down, and went across the road. The person had come down the bank and gone up on the other side. It was not a soft hare’s foot, which hardly leaves an impression, it was not forked like a wild boar’s track, it was not like a cloven hoof, such as the wolf’s—it was a deep hole. I stopped and stooped down, and cleared away the loose snow that fell round, and came upon the very track of the Black Pest!”

      “Are you sure it was that?”

      “Of course I am. I know the old woman by her foot better than by her figure, for I always go, sir, with my eyes on the ground. I know everybody by their tracks; and as for this one, a child might know it.”

      “What, then, distinguishes this foot so particularly?”

      “It is so small that you could cover it with your hand; it is finely shaped, the heel is rather long, the outline clean, the great toe lies close to the other toes, and they are all as fine as if they were in a lady’s slipper. It is a lovely foot. Twenty years ago I should have fallen in love with a foot like that. Whenever I come across it, it has such an effect upon me! No one would believe that such a foot could belong to the Black Plague.”

      And the poor fellow, joining his hands together, contemplated the stone floor with doleful eyes.

      “Well, Sébalt, what next?” asked Sperver impatiently.

      “Ah, yes, to be sure! Well, I recognised that track and started off in pursuit. I was hoping to catch the creature in her lair, but I will tell you the way she took me. I climbed up the bank by the roadside, only two gunshots from Nideck. I go along the hill, keeping the track on my right; it led along the side of the wood in the Rhéthal. All at once it jumps over the ditch into the wood. I stuck to it, but, happening to look a little to my left, I saw another track which had, been following the Black Plague. I stopped short: was it Sperver’s? or Kasper Trumpfs? or whose? I came to it, and you may fancy how astounded I was when I saw that it was nobody from our place! I know every foot in the Schwartzwald from Fribourg to Nideck. That foot was like none of ours. It must have come from a distance. The boot—for it was a kind of well-made, soft gentleman’s boot, with spurs, which leave a little print behind them—the boot was not round at the toes, but square. The sole was thin, and bent with every step, and it had no nails in it. The walk was rapid, and the short steps were like those of a young man of twenty to five-and-twenty. I noticed the stitches in the side leather at once, and I think I never saw finer.”

      “Who can this be?” Sperver exclaimed.

      Sébalt raised his shoulders and extended his hands, but said nothing.

      “Who can have any object in following the old woman?” I asked Sperver.

      “No one on earth can tell,” was the reply.

      And so we sat a few minutes meditating over what we had heard.

      At last he went on again with his narrative:—

      “I kept following the track; it went up the next ridge through the pine-forest. When it doubled round the Koche Fendue I said to myself, ‘Ah, you accursed plague! If there was much game of your sort there would not be much sport; it would be preferable to work like a nigger!’ So we all three arrive—the two tracks and I—at the top of the Schnéeberg. There the wind had been blowing hard; the snow was knee-deep—but no matter! I must get on! I got to the edge of the torrent of the Steinbach, and there I lost the track. I halted, and I saw that, after trying up and down in several directions, the gentleman’s boots had gone down the Tiefenbach. That was a bad sign. I looked along the other side of the torrent, but there was no appearance of a track there—none at all! The old hag had paddled up and down the stream to throw any one off the scent who should try to follow her. Where was I to go to?—right, or left, or straight on? Not knowing, I came back to Nideck.”

      “You haven’t told us about her breakfast,” said Sperver.

      “No, I was forgetting. At the foot of Roche Fendue I saw there had been a fire; there was a black place; I laid my hand upon it, thinking it might be warm, which would have proved that the Black Plague had not gone far; but it was as cold as ice. Close by I saw a wire trap in the bushes. It seems the creature knows how to snare game. A hare had been caught in it; the print of its body was still plain, lying flat in the snow. The witch had lighted the fire to cook it; she had had a good breakfast, I’ll be bound.”

      At this Sperver cried indignantly—

      “Just fancy that old witch living on meat while so many honest folks in our villages have nothing better than potatoes to eat! That’s what upsets me, Fritz! Ah! if I had but—”

      But his thoughts remained untold; he turned deadly pale, and all three of us, in a moment, stood rigid and motionless, staring with horror at each other’s ghastly countenances.

      A yell—the howling cry of the wolf in the long, cold days of winter—the cry which none can imagine who has not heard the most fearful and harrowing of all bestial sounds—that fearful cry was echoing through the castle not far from us! It rose up the spiral staircase, it filled the massive building as if the hungry, savage beast was at our door!

      Travellers speak of the deep roar of the lion troubling the silence of the night amidst the rocky deserts of Africa; but while the tropical regions, sultry and baked, resound with the vibrations of the mighty voice of the savage monarch of the desert, making the air tremble with the distant thunder of his awful cry, the vast snowy deserts of the North too have their characteristic cry—a strange, lamentable yell that seems to suit the character of the dreary winter scene. That voice of the Northern desert is the howl of the wolf!

      The instant after this awful sound had broken upon the silence followed another formidable body of discordant sounds—the baying and yelling of sixty hounds—answering from the ramparts of Nideck. The whole pack gave voice at the same moment—the deep bay of the bloodhound, the sharp cry of the pointer, the plaintive yelpings of the spaniels, and the melancholy howl of the mastiffs, all mingling in confusion with the rattling of dog-chains, the shaking of the kennels under the struggles of the hounds to get loose; and, dominating over all, the long, dismal, prolonged note of the wolf’s monotonous howl; his was the leading part in this horrible canine concert!

      Sperver sprang from his seat and ran out upon the platform to see if a wolf had dropped into the moat. But no—the howling came from neither. Then turning to us he cried—

      “Fritz! Sébalt!—come, come quickly!”

      We flew down the steps four at a time and rushed into the fencing-school. Here we heard the cry of the wolf alone, prolonged beneath the echoing arches