LITMIR.BIZ

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ha!’ he exclaimed in French, but with a curious German accentuation, ‘good morning, monsieur; how are you this morning? Is it to your taste?’

      ‘Yes, pretty well,’ I replied in the same language.

      ‘Ha, ha!’ said the brave fellow, ‘you are a Frenchman, then; I saw that at once!’ and he saluted like an old soldier. ‘Are you not a Frenchman?’ he added.

      ‘Well, not exactly, I come from Dusseldorf.’

      ‘Ah! from Dusseldorf; but it is all the same,’ he said, as he lapsed into the old German tongue; ‘you are a good fellow nevertheless.’

      He placed his hand lightly upon my shoulder as he spoke.

      ‘You are en route early,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, I come from Pirmasens.’

      ‘It is nine good miles from here; you must have set out at three o’clock this morning.’

      ‘At two o’clock, but I halted for an hour in the dell yonder.’

      ‘Ah! yes, near the source of the Vellerst. And, if not impertinent, may I inquire your destination?’

      ‘My destination! Oh! I go anywhere. I walk about, look around me—’

      ‘You are a timber contractor, then?’

      ‘No, I am a painter.’

      ‘A painter – good. A capital profession that. Why you can make three or four crowns a day, and walk about with your hands in your pockets meanwhile. Painters have been here before. I have seen two or three in the last thirty years. It is a capital calling.’

      We pursued our way towards the house together, he with bent back, stretching out his long limbs, while I came trudging after, congratulating myself on having pitched upon a resting-place. The sun was getting very warm, and the ascent was steep. At intervals long vistas opened out to the left, and mingled together in deep gorges; the blue distance trended down towards the Rhine, and beyond the hazy horizon mingled with the sky and passed into the infinite.

      ‘What a splendid country!’ I cried as I stood wrapped in contemplation of this wonderful panorama.

      The old keeper stopped as I spoke; his piercing eyes took in the prospect, and he replied gravely: ‘That’s true! I have the most beautiful district of all the mountain as far as Neustadt. Every one who comes to see the country says so; even the ranger himself confesses as much. Now look yonder. Do you see the Losser descending between those rocks? Look at that white line – that is the foam. You must see that closer, sir. You should hear the roar of the cataract in the spring when the snows are melting; it is like thunder amongst the hills. Then look higher up; do you see the blossom of the heather and the broom? Well, there is the Valdhorn; the flowers are falling just now, but in the spring you would perceive a bouquet that rises to heaven. And if you are fond of curiosities, there is the Birckenstein; we must not forget that. All the learned people – for one or two such do come here during the year – never fail to go and read the old inscriptions upon the stones.’

      ‘It is a ruin, then?’

      ‘Yes; an old piece of wall upon a rock enveloped in nettles and brambles – a regular owl’s nest. For my own part, I like the Losser, the Krapenfelz, the Valdhorn; but as they say in France, every one has his own taste and colour. We have everything here, high, medium-sized, and young forest trees, brushwood and brambles, rocks, caverns, torrents, rivers—’

      ‘But no lakes,’ I said.

      ‘Lakes!’ he exclaimed. ‘No lakes! As if we had not just beyond the Losser a lake a league in circumference, dark and deep, surrounded by rocks and the giant pines of the Veierschloss! They call it The Lake of the Wild Huntsman!’

      And he bent his head as if in reflection for some seconds. Then suddenly rousing himself, he resumed his route without uttering a word. It appeared to me that the old keeper so lately enraptured had suddenly struck upon a melancholy chord. I followed him musing. He, bending forward, wearing a pensive air, and learning on his great holly staff, took such long and vigorous strides that it seemed as if his limbs would burst through his blouse every moment!

      The forester’s house came into sight between the trees in the midst of a verdant meadow. At the end of the valley the river could be perceived following the undulations of the hills; farther still in the gorge were clusters of fruit-trees, some tilled ground, a small garden surrounded by a low wall, and finally on a terrace having the wood for a background was the house of the old keeper – a white house, somewhat ancient in appearance, with three windows, and the door on the ground floor, four windows above with little diamond-shaped panes, and four others in the garrets amid the brown tiles of the roof.

      Facing the wood in our direction was an old worm-eaten gallery with a carved balustrade, the winding staircase outside being fastened to the wall. A lattice trellis-work occupied two sides upon which the honeysuckles and vines clambered and hung back in festoons from the roof. Across the green sward the small black window-panes glittered in the shade. On the wall of the kitchen garden an old chanticleer was proudly strutting in the midst of his hens; upon the mossy roof a flock of pigeons were moving about; in the stream a number of ducks were swimming, and from the threshold we could have perceived the length of the sloping dell, the extensive valley, and the leafy forest shades as far as the eye could reach.

      Nothing so calm and peaceable as this house, lost in the solitudes of the mountains, can be imagined; its very appearance touched one more than you might fancy, and made one feel inclined to live and die there – if possible.

      Two old hounds ran out to welcome us. A young girl was hanging some linen out to dry upon the balustrade, and seeing the dogs running out, looked up. The old keeper smiled as he pressed forward.

      ‘You are at home here,’ I said.

      ‘Yes, this is my house.’

      ‘May I ask for a crust and a glass of wine?’

      ‘Of course, man, of course. If the keepers sent people away I wonder to what inn the travellers could go. You are right welcome, sir.’

      At this moment we reached the gate in the palings of the little garden; the dogs jumped upon us, and the girl in the balcony waved her hand in welcome. At the end of the garden another gate gave us admission to the yard, and the keeper, turning to me, exclaimed in a joyous tone: ‘You are now at the house of Frantz Honeck, gamekeeper to the Grand Duke Ludwig. Come into the parlour. I will just get rid of my game-bag, take off my gaiters, and join you there.’

      We traversed a narrow passage. Talking as we advanced, the keeper pushed open the door of a low square whitewashed room, furnished with beechwood chairs, having a heart-shaped ornament cut in the back of each, a high walnut-wood press, with glittering hinges and rounded feet, and at the farther end was an old Nuremberg clock. In the corner to the right stood the stove, and by the lattice-windows was a firwood table; these made up the furniture of the room. On the table were a small loaf of bread and two glasses.

      ‘Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,’ said the old keeper. ‘I will return in a few moments.’

      He left the room as he spoke.

      I heard him enter the next room. Then, delighted to find myself in such good quarters, I took off my great-coat. The dogs stretched themselves on the floor.

      ‘Louise! Louise!’ cried out old Frantz.

      The young girl passed the windows, and her pretty rosy face put aside the plants to look into the room. I bowed to her. She blushed, and hastily retired.

      ‘Louise!’ cried the old man again.

      ‘I am here, grandfather, I am here,’ she replied gently as she came into the passage.

      Then I could not help hearing their conversation.

      ‘There is a traveller come, a fine lad; he will breakfast here. Go and draw a flask of white wine, and put on two plates.’

      ‘Yes,

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