The poor gamekeeper, pale and trembling, roared with rage at his adversary, without the power of uttering a syllable. "Light thy pipe," said Mads, "the tinder will else be all burned out; perhaps it is no good exchange thou hast made; this is certainly better,--"here he patted the gun,--"but thou shalt have it again when thou givest me my own back." Niels instantly took the other from behind him, held it out to the deer-stealer with one hand, at the same time stretching forth the other to receive his own piece. "Wait a moment," said Mads, "thou shalt first promise me--but it is no matter, it is not very likely you'd keep it--though should you now and then hear a pop in the heather, don't be so hasty, but think of to-day and of Mike Foxtail." Turning then towards the traveller, "Does your horse stand fire?" said he, "Fire away," exclaimed the latter. Mads held out the keeper's gun with one hand, like a pistol, and fired it off; thereupon he took the flint from the cock, and returned the piece to his adversary, saying, "There, take your pop-gun; at any rate it shall do no more harm just yet. Farewell, and thanks for to-day." With these words he slung his own piece over his shoulder, and went towards the spot where he had left the deer. The keeper, whose tongue had hitherto been bound by a power like magic, now gave vent to his long-repressed indignation, in a volley of oaths and curses. The traveller, whose sympathy had transferred itself from the escaped deer-stealer to the almost despairing game-keeper, endeavoured to comfort him as far as lay in his power. "You have in reality lost nothing," said he, "except the miserable satisfaction of rendering a man and all his family unhappy." "Lost nothing!" exclaimed the huntsman, "you don't understand the matter. Lost nothing! The rascal has spoiled my good gun." "Load it, and put in another flint," said the traveller. "Pshaw!" answered Niels, "it will never more shoot hart or hare. It is bewitched, that I will swear; and if one remedy does not succeed--aha! there lies one licking the sunshine in the wheel-rut; he shall eat no young larks to-day." Saying this, he stopped his horse, hastily put a flint in his gun, loaded it, and dismounted. The stranger, who was uninitiated in the craft of venery, and equally ignorant of its terminology and magic, also stopped to see what his companion was about to perform; while the latter, leading his horse, walked a few steps forward, and with the barrel of his piece poked about something that lay in his way, which the stranger now perceived to be an adder. "Will you get in?" said the keeper, all the while thrusting with his gun at the serpent. At length, having got its head into the barrel, he held his piece up, and shook it until the adder was completely in. He then fired it off with its extraordinary loading, of which not an atom was more to be seen, and said, "If that won't do, there is no one but Mads or Mike Foxtail who can set it to rights."