I had not deceived myself; for we had not persevered in our laborious progress above a few minutes longer, before I distinctly heard the dogs' voices; and in due time we came to an opening in the wood, where the road became more passable. At last we arrived at a large respectable-looking house, though, as far as the dim light enabled us to perceive, old, gloomy, and surrounded by the high walls of a regularly-built square court.
The postilion, without hesitation, knocked loudly at the outer gate. The dogs immediately grew outrageous, and sprang out from their kennels against us. In the house, (or keep,) however, all remained quiet and dead, till the postilion had recourse to his horn, (lending me a spare one, that we might play a duet,) and blew "Wilhelmus von Nassau" with such vehemence, that the old vaulted building re-echoed to the notes.
Then a window in the upper story, from which I had before seen the light, was opened, and a deep, rough voice called out, "Christian! Christian!"—"Ay, ay, sir," cried a voice from below. Then we knocked again, and blew our horns.
"There is a knocking and blowing of bugles at our gate," said the voice from above, "and the dogs are raging like devils. Take the lantern down, with the blunderbuss number three, and see what is the matter."—Soon after, we heard Christian's voice, quieting the dogs, and saw him at last come with the lantern.
CHAPTER XXI.
The postilion now found out where we were. Instead of going straight forward, he had quitted the road, and driven almost in a retrograde direction, so that we were now at the Prince von Rosenthurm's forst-haus, distant only about a league to the right of the station which we had quitted.
As soon as we had explained to Christian the mischance that we had met with, he directly opened both wings of the gate, and let the carriage pass into the court. The dogs, who were now pacified, came fawning and snuffling about us; and the man above, who was still stationed at the window, cried out incessantly, in a voice by no means of good-humour, "Who's there?—who's there? What for a caravan is that?" to which neither Christian nor I returned a word in answer.
At last I stepped into the house, and was walking up stairs, when I met a powerful tall man, with a sun-burnt visage, a large hat, with a plume of green feathers, on his head, (which was oddly contrasted with the rest of his figure, for he appeared in his shirt and slippers,) and a drawn stiletto (or hunting dagger) in his hand. In a rough voice, he called out to me, "Whence do you come? How dare you disturb people in the dead of night? This is no public-house; no post station. Here no one lives but the Ober-revier-forster, and for want of a better, I am he. Christian is an ass, for having opened the gates without my permission."
In a tone of great humility, I now related the story of my mischance, explaining that nothing but necessity had brought me hither. Hereupon the man was somewhat conciliated. He said, "Well, no doubt, the storm was very violent; but your postilion must be a stupid rascal, to drive out of the road, and break your carriage in that manner. Such a fellow should have been able to go blindfolded through these woods. He should be at home among them, like any one of us."