monster is following his usual paths--we are sure to see him soon.
By St. Hubert, what lucky dogs we are!"

But the Parisian answered not, and leaned against his oak, a perfect
picture of despair.

"Adolphe," I reiterated, "he won't be here yet, but speak low, or we may
spoil everything. How do you feel? Do you think you can take good aim,
and pull the trigger?"

"I feel," whispered Adolphe, "that I am not cut out for boar-hunting."

"Bah! Why, the other day you seemed to think it would be delightful, and
now you don't appear to like the sport; keep your heart up, be cool, and
all will be well;--it is only on grand occasions--those when real danger
presents itself, as you told me the other day--that the proofs of
undoubted courage show themselves; and then the ladies of the Faubourg
St. Germain that you were to soften with your tales of forest
life--'Mademoiselles,' you were to commence, 'when I was in Le Morvan,
we had famous wolf and boar-hunting, and on one occasion'"....

"No! no!" groaned the Parisian, "I shall commence thus: On one occasion,
nay, ladies, on all occasions, I much prefer being in your delightful
society to that of the boars of Le Morvan."

"Nonsense, good Adolphe, you are laughing; why, you were to have the
skin stuffed, the tusks gilt, the feet silver-mounted, and the tail was
to be scarlet and curly. What! do you think no more about it?"

"Oh, yes! and of the cork calves also."

"Pooh! have we not two good hunting-knives and four iron bullets in the
rifles, and a magnificent oak, a perfect wooden tower, for a
breastwork."

"Yes! we have all this."

"And is not courage your father, and an excellent aim your mother, and
is not death to the boar in our barrels?"

"Certainly!--death--oh! what a word at such a crisis!"--and on the
instant two shots were heard, which made him jump again.

"Ah! ah!--good; that's the old gentleman who has led off the ball; the
music of his rifle is not to be mistaken. The grisly vagabond has by
this time two bits of iron in his flanks, which will considerably hasten
his march. Silence! and be on the _qui vive_. Listen! Hear you not the
distant crash in the bushes?" Two fresh shots were now fired, but
nearer. "Said I not so? he is running the gauntlet--one more shot. Hush
again! there he is, tearing along. Hark! not a whisper; your eye on the
open, your ear to the wind, and your finger on the trigger!" But it was
not the boar; for at the moment two roebucks