ile Sperver closed the door, and contemplating this
ancient abode, I cried--

"Thank God! we shall rest now!"

"With a well-furnished table before us," added Gideon. "Don't stand there
with your nose in the air, but rather consider what is before you--a leg
of a kid, a couple of roast fowls, a pike fresh caught, with parsley
sauce; cold meats and hot wines, that's what I like. Kasper has attended
to my orders like a real good fellow."

Gideon spoke the truth. The meats were cold and the wines were warm, for
in front of the fire stood a row of small bottles under the gentle
influence of the heat.

At the sight of these good things my appetite rose in me wonderfully. But
Sperver, who understood what is comfortable, stopped me.

"Fritz," said he, "don't let us be in too great a hurry; we have plenty
of time; the fowls won't fly away. Your boots must hurt you. After eight
hours on horseback it is pleasant to take off one's boots, that's my
principle. Now sit down, put your boot between my knees; there goes one
off, now the other, that's the way; now put your feet into these
slippers, take off your cloak and throw this lighter coat over your
shoulders. Now we are ready."

And with his cheery summons I sat down with him to work, one on each side
of the table, remembering the German proverb--"Thirst comes from the evil
one, but good wine from the Powers above."

CHAPTER III.

We ate with the vigorous appetite which ten hours in the snows of the
Black Forest would be sure to provoke.

Sperver making indiscriminate attacks upon the kid, the fowls, and the
fish, murmured with his mouth full--

"The woods, the lakes and rivers, and the heathery hills are full of good
things!"

Then he leaned over the back of his chair, and laying his hand on the
first bottle that came to hand, he added--

"And we have hills green in spring, purple in autumn when the grapes
ripen. Your health, Fritz!"

"Yours, Gideon!"

We were a wonder to behold. We reciprocally admired each other.

The fire crackled, the forks rattled, teeth were in full activity,
bottles gurgled, glasses jingled, while outside the wintry blast, the
high moaning mountain winds, were mournfully chanting the dirge of the
year, that strange wailing hymn with which they accompany the shock of
the tempest and the swift rush of the grey clouds charged with snow and
hail, while the pale moon lights up the grim and ghastly battle scene.

But we were snug unde