"The night is dark, the rain is falling heavily, Master Selbitz . . . perhaps the chase will have carried the governor into the forest of Harterassen. . . . Master Erhard Trusches sent word this morning by Karl, the dog-keeper, that the baron was to hunt a wild boar; . . . and wild boars always start in the woods of Ferstenfak, gain the plain of Marais, return to their lair in the forest of Harterassen, and then are captured at the pond of the priory. All that would make a run of at least eight leagues, and as many to return, Master Selbitz." . . . "And what with the night and the rain, and the bad roads of the forest, that is a long way. . . . But listen, Link," . . . said the major-domo, putting his hand to his ear; "is not that the sound of the governor's trumpet?" "No, Master Selbitz, it is the wind blowing the weathercock." . . . "What time is it?" asked the major-domo; for clocks were almost as unknown in the castle as at Otaheite. "It must be between six and seven, Master Selbitz, for Elphin, the governor's roan horse, has been calling for his grain for some time. . . . Hark! listen! do you hear him? Patience, patience, old Elphin!" said the groom, coming back from the door. . . . "When your companions, Kol and Lipper, get back, you will have your supper, but not before, you old glutton!" "This time it surely is the governor's trumpet," cried the major-domo. . . . "God be praised! What weather! Come! run and hold the master's stirrup. Link, while I go and throw some pine cones on the fire, to make a blaze." "That is certainly the governor's trumpet," said Link, after listening attentively, . . . "but he does not sound a joyful flourish, or the retreat. . . . Ah, Master Selbitz, bad luck, bad luck!" "The better reason for not keeping him waiting,--go--hurry!" The groom ran out. . . . Selbitz, having brightened the fire, put on his lord's silver plate a letter with a great red seal, which an express had brought from Vienna during the day. At this moment they heard the loud snapping of a whip, and a stentorian and harsh voice, crying: "Go to the black devil! you cursed dogs! Erhard, see if the piebald horse eats well; for the day has been a hard one!" Then they heard the clatter of great iron-heeled and spurred boots; the door opened, and the lord of Henferester entered in the midst of a dozen dogs, covered with mud and streaming with rain, who rushed into the kitchen, and crowded before the fire to dry themselves. The baron allowed them this privilege as much for love of the canine race, as for his own interest, knowing that dogs who go into their kennels shivering and cold, often fall sick.