Voices might have been heard in the cave the next day—sweet sounds sometimes as if of hymns of praise.
The birds and beasts came to the hermit's cave, and marvelled that none came out to feed them—that no crumbs were thrown to them, no food brought forth. A bold robin even ventured in, but came out as if affrighted, and flew right away.
They sang their sweet songs to each other. No human ear heard them; but the valley was lovely still.
Who shall go into that cave and wake the sleepers? Who?
Then came discordant noises, spoiling nature's sweet harmony—the baying of hounds, the cries of men sometimes loud and discordant, sometimes of those who struggled, sometimes of those in pain.
Louder and louder—the hunt is up—the horse and hound invade the glen.
A troop of affrighted-looking men hasten down the valley.
Look, they are lepers.
They have cause to fear; the deep baying of the mastiffs is deepening, drawing near.
They espy the cave—they rush towards it up the slope—in they dash.