"The world's all at peace, and the sunshiny earth Is teeming with riches and joy; And each passing minute to pleasure gives birth, And manhood's as gay as the boy. "Now hark to the sound Of the horn and the hound, As they waken the valley and wood:-- Hide your head, hide your head, From the march of the dead! 'Tis the giant Black Huntsman is riding afar; 'Tis the blast of the trumpet,--the grim dogs of war; And the land shall be deluged in blood: Hide your head!" CHAPTER XXXVII. It was a gloomy meal, the dinner at the castle of Ehrenstein; and would have been gloomier still, had it not been for the presence of one of those persons who in that age were privileged to mingle jest, if not mirth, with every event of life's chequered course, and make the wedding or the funeral alike the occasion of their wild satire. A number of the troops of Leiningen had gone forth to scour the country round in pursuit of the fugitive Baron of Eppenfeld; but Count Frederick himself had been persuaded, somewhat more easily than his host had expected, to remain till after the mid-day meal. A few courteous entreaties were all that the frank old nobleman required; and whether they were sincere or not, he evidently received them as such, saying that he could well trust his good riders to trap an old fox, though it might have grown grey in its cunning; but that, if they had not succeeded by two hours after noon, he would mount himself. All was hurry and confusion during the morning, however; and the castle looked more like a fortress, the garrison of which expected immediate attack, than the dwelling of a high noble in a time of peace. Parties were hourly coming in or going forth, messengers arrived or were despatched continually, and even the hall and the festive board were not free from business and importunity. The brow of the Count of Ehrenstein remained as black as night; nothing could move his lip to a smile; and as he sat at the head of the table in the lesser hall, with a greatly diminished party around, his very look spread gloom over the feast, and saddened the gayest hearts present. Count Frederick strove to comfort and console him; but the Lord of Ehrenstein heard his words in silence, or replied in monosyllables. The priest ate the rich food and drank the fine wine, without venturing more than a few words in praise of both; the knights sat round, and partook of their good cheer, with only a whisper amongst themselves now and then; and no one spoke but the jester, who, as usual, held on his captious course, as if nothing had occurred to interrupt the merriment; or, at least, as if he were in utter ignorance that such had been the case.