The lord of Henferester, a man of enormous size, and from forty-five to fifty years old, seemed to possess herculean strength. On entering, he threw his old felt hat into the kneading-trough. His bright red hair was cut short; his russet beard, which he shaved only on council days, was so thick that it covered nearly all his face. His features, strongly marked, and tanned by exposure to the open air, were hard, yet not devoid of a certain nobility. His old green jacket was soaked with rain, and buttoned up to his chin. His deer-skin breeches were black with age, and his great thick boots, covered with mud, reached more than half-way up his thighs; a leather belt held his hunting-knives, with horn handles. He carried across his breast a great trumpet of tarnished copper, and held in his large, hairy hand, a whip and a carbine. Having given this weapon and the trumpet to his major-domo, who hung them upon the wall, the master approached the fire with a discontented air, distributed several rude kicks among his dogs, to make them move out of his way, and threw himself heavily in his chair, saying to his hounds, sharply: "Get out, you lazy, clumsy wretches! you are much more worthy to turn the spit than to follow the chase of a noble animal. . . . To give out after a five-hours' run, and all because the haunt of the wild boar is too brambly! You have, it seems, become very delicate! Hum! and even you, old Ralph!" he added, with a furious look, aiming a kick at the dog thus addressed. The major-domo, seeing the humor of his master, tried to calm him by recalling his more successful sport. "I can understand that my lord may be displeased when he has had bad luck, for he is not used to it; but--" "Well, well," said the baron, in a harsh tone, "take the venison from the spit, and give me my supper, for I am as hungry as the devil. This boar led us through the forest of Harterassen; then the dogs gave out before a hedge so thick that one should have the hide of a wild boar itself to penetrate it." . . . "My lord sees, then, that it is not altogether the fault of his brave dogs. But my lord is wet through; if he would but change his clothes." . . . "Change my clothes! and why would you have me change, Master Selbitz the tender-skinned?" cried the governor, wrathfully; "do you take me for a silly woman, for a Frenchman? Do I change my clothes when I return from the chase? Do my dogs change? do my horses change?" "No, of course not, my lord, but your clothes smoke on your body, like Dame Wilhelmina's tub when she is making the washing lye." . . . "That shows that they are drying, and the dampness is leaving them!" "But, my lord". . . "But, hold your tongue, Master Selbitz the blockhead, Master Selbitz the babbler, and give me a mug of kirchenwasser." Then, seeing the letter which was on his plate, the baron asked: "What is that, Selbitz?" "A letter which Count Stasfield's carrier has brought."