On the stove stood a small press with cooking apparatus.

"I cook for myself," said the forester, "and get what I want from the
public house."

There were several birdcages in the windows, and a constant trilling and
chirping going on within them. Near the stove sat a raven, whose rough
plumage, and the white feathers about his beak and wings, proved his
great age. He had drawn his head in between his shoulders, and seemed
self-absorbed, but in reality his bright eye was observing every
movement of the strangers.

Next came the bed-room, where several guns were hanging. A grating
before the window proved that this was the citadel of the house.

"Where does that door lead to?" asked Anton, pointing to a trap-door in
the floor.

"To a cellar," replied the forester, with some embarrassment.

"Is it arched?"

"I will take you down, if you will come alone."

"Wait for us," cried Anton to his companions in the room.

The forester lit a lantern, carefully bolted the door, and went first
with the light.

"I had not thought," said he, "that any eyes but mine would see my
secret in my lifetime."

A few steps led them into a narrow vault, one side of which had been
broken through, and a low subterranean passage made, supported by stems
of trees triangularly placed.

"That is my run," said the forester, holding the candle down, "and it
leads into the young wood. It is more than forty yards long, and I was a
great while excavating it. This is the way I creep in and out
unobserved; and I may thank it that I am here still, for this is why the
stupid villagers believe me a sorcerer. When they have watched me go
into the house, and think they may steal in safely, I suddenly appear
among them. Two years ago a band of them broke into my house, and it
would have been all up with me but that I slunk out here like a badger.
Do not betray to any one what I have just shown you."

Anton promised that he would not, and they went back into the little
inclosure, where they found Karl occupied in fastening, between four
blocks that he had driven into the ground, the wooden trough of a young
fox. The fox, insensible to this delicate attention on the part of the
hussar, snarled at him, rattled his chain, and tried all it could, under
the board that Karl had placed across its kennel, to get at his hands.

"Do you want to kiss my hands, little red-head?" cried Karl, hammering
away. "You are a pretty fellow! What a pair of soft truthfu