They hear the dead leaves click against the pane,
Updriven by the wind in its mad play.
“One might be thankful that one need not stray
On such a night as this—’tis just the night
When the Wild Huntsman (as the people say),
With all his hounds is scouring heaven’s height,
And you may see him if, as now, the moon be bright.”
V
“It is an old and foolish tale. Be still,
For now, I think, your father’s step I hear,