as he set me again on my legs, and pushed
me from him, "Do you then already love to shed blood? Would you kill a
man for a hare? Have you not the sense to distinguish a joke from an
insult? There," he added, giving me back my knife, which had fallen from
its sheath in the struggle, "young man, do your worst!"

But I was now as angry with myself as I had been with the old man, and
heartily ashamed of my conduct. I turned on my heel, and walked off,
vexed beyond expression at my intemperate folly.

The very next day, as good fortune would have it, I met him again in the
forest, and lost not a moment in asking his forgiveness for my brutal
conduct of the previous day.

"Ah! you acknowledge your fault, do you?" replied the Pere Seguin,
"enough, that shows you have a heart. I bear you no ill-will; you are
_vif_ as the mountain breeze, but that comes of being young. Give me
your hand, and when you want a dove or lilies of the valley for your
sister, venison or wild boar for your friends, I, my gun, and my dog,
are at your service; but"--and he whispered in my ear--"no more knives."

"See! see!" and I opened my jacket, "it is gone. I threw it into the
moat this morning."

"'Tis well! very well! You have had a happy escape, young man. _Au
revoir._ Now, Faro, take your leave of Monsieur;" and instantly obeying
a sign from his master, the red dog licked my boots. A moment more, and
they were both lost to view in the forest.

From that time I was frequently with the Pere Seguin, for he seemed to
have a fancy--a sort of affection for me, and on my part I had an
incomprehensible pleasure in his society, though in the early part of
our acquaintance I could not divest myself of an undefined dread of him;
and had some difficulty in reconciling myself to the harsh and guttural
tones of his voice, and his peculiarly severe physiognomy. Nevertheless,
many an evening did I slip away from the paternal hearth, much to the
distress of my poor mother, to seat myself on one of his wooden stools,
and eat the chestnuts he was roasting in the embers, while he related,
by the pale light of his small charcoal fire, which but dimly showed the
extent even of his small room, frightful stories of ghosts, suicides,
drownings, and fearful murders, with which he delighted to terrify me;
and, dear reader, he succeeded to perfection, for all the time I sat
listening to them I was cold, and trembled like a leaf in the northern
blast.

Well do I rememb