"I've done you none, certainly; but you have been killing my friends; and would gladly have killed my father!"
"Who is your father?"
"I must not tell you that. However, I may tell you that he is—oh, such a brave man! and so good! Every one loves him."
"Hofer, I suppose?"
"No, not Hofer; but I must not tell you any more, so now good bye. I don't think any one will come near you—unless it should be the hill-sprite."
"Who is the hill-sprite?"
"Well, I can't justly say; but he haunts the hill-top; and when the herdsmen have gone down into the valley for winter, he takes possession of one of their deserted châlets,—to be more snug and comfortable, I suppose, while nobody else wants it; and, sometimes, when a herdsman has gone back again for something he has forgotten, he has found the hill-sprite already settling himself in the châlet, and arranging his ghostly pans and pails."
"Hum! And are you going to leave me to the mercy of this hill-sprite?"
"Oh, he won't hurt you. You got here first; and if he looks in and sees you, he'll go away. Shall you be frightened?"
"That depends. If he wears a green jacket and red sash, and carries a rifle over his shoulder, very likely I shall be."