“Was, you mean, once,” answered the old man quickly.
“I mean what I say,” replied the other rudely. “Confiscation cannot take away a right, it can at most—”
This speech was fortunately not destined to be finished, for while he was speaking, his quick glance detected a dark object soaring above his head. In a second he had seized his gun, and taking a steady aim, he fired. The loud report was heard repeated in many a far-off glen, and ere its last echo died away, a heavy object fell upon the road not many yards from where they stood.
“This fellow,” said the youth, as he lifted the body of a large black eagle from the ground—“This fellow was a confiscator too, and see what he has come to. You'd not tell me that our lambs were his, would you?”
The roll of wheels happily drowned these words, for by this time the postillions had reached the place, the four post-horses labouring under the heavy-laden travelling carriage, with its innumerable boxes and imperials.
The post boys saluted the young man with marked deference, to which he scarcely deigned an acknowledgment, as he replaced his shot-pouch, and seemed to prepare for the road once more.
Meanwhile the old gentleman had assisted his daughter to the carriage, and was about to follow, when he turned around suddenly and said—
“If your road lies this way, may I offer you a seat with us?”
The youth stared as if he did not well comprehend the offer, and his cheek flushed, as he answered coldly—
“I thank you; but my path is across the mountain.”