The
loud barking changed into a friendly welcome. As she opened the door,
Bergmann, the otter-hound, came straddling toward her, wagging his tail
immoderately, and Hector made a succession of audacious leaps, while
even the fox crept back into its kennel, laid its nose on its trough,
and looked slyly at her. But she saw a horse's head on the other side of
the hedge; he that she had meant to avoid was actually here. For a
moment she remained irresolute, and was going to turn away, when the
forester came out. Now, then, retreat was impossible, and she followed
him in. Fink stood in the middle of the room, in the full light of the
rays which fell through the small panes. He advanced politely. "I came
to make acquaintance," said he, pointing to the forester; "and here I am
admiring your stout-hearted vassal and his comfortable home." The
forester placed a chair; Lenore could but take it. Fink leaned against
the brown wall, and looked at her with undisguised admiration. "You are
a wonderful contrast to this old boy and to the whole room," said he,
glancing round. "Pray make no sign with your parasol; all these stuffed
creatures only wait your command to come to life again, and lay
themselves at your feet. Look at the heron yonder, raising its head
already."

"It is only the effect of the sunshine," said the forester,
comfortingly.

Lenore laughed. "We know what that means," cried Fink; "you are in the
plot; you are the gnome of this queen. If there be no magic here, let me
sleep out the rest of my days. One wave of that wand, and the beams of
this great bird-cage will open, and you fly with your whole suite out
into the sunshine. Doubtless your palace is on the summit of the
fir-trees without; there are the pleasant halls in which your throne
stands, mighty mistress of this place, fair-haired goddess of Spring!"

"My comfort is," said Lenore, somewhat confused, "that it is not I who
occasion these ideas, but the pleasure you take in the ideas themselves.
I only chance to be the unworthy subject of your fancy. You are a poet."

"Fie!" cried Fink; "how can you detract from me so much! I a poet!
Except a few merry sailors' songs, I do not know a single piece of
poetry by heart. The only lines I care for are some fragments of the old
school; for example, 'Hurrah! Hurrah! hop, hop, hop,' in a poem which,
if I am not mistaken, bears your name. And even to these classic lines I
have to object that they rather represent the mate