"That is certainly the governor's trumpet," said Link, after listening attentively, . . . "but he does not sound a joyful flourish, or the retreat. . . . Ah, Master Selbitz, bad luck, bad luck!"
"The better reason for not keeping him waiting,—go—hurry!"
The groom ran out. . . . Selbitz, having brightened the fire, put on his lord's silver plate a letter with a great red seal, which an express had brought from Vienna during the day.
At this moment they heard the loud snapping of a whip, and a stentorian and harsh voice, crying: "Go to the black devil! you cursed dogs! Erhard, see if the piebald horse eats well; for the day has been a hard one!"
Then they heard the clatter of great iron-heeled and spurred boots; the door opened, and the lord of Henferester entered in the midst of a dozen dogs, covered with mud and streaming with rain, who rushed into the kitchen, and crowded before the fire to dry themselves.
The baron allowed them this privilege as much for love of the canine race, as for his own interest, knowing that dogs who go into their kennels shivering and cold, often fall sick.
The lord of Henferester, a man of enormous size, and from forty-five to fifty years old, seemed to possess herculean strength. On entering, he threw his old felt hat into the kneading-trough. His bright red hair was cut short; his russet beard, which he shaved only on council days, was so thick that it covered nearly all his face. His features, strongly marked, and tanned by exposure to the open air, were hard, yet not devoid of a certain nobility.
His old green jacket was soaked with rain, and buttoned up to his chin. His deer-skin breeches were black with age, and his great thick boots, covered with mud, reached more than half-way up his thighs; a leather belt held his hunting-knives, with horn handles. He carried across his breast a great trumpet of tarnished copper, and held in his large, hairy hand, a whip and a carbine.
Having given this weapon and the trumpet to his major-domo, who hung them upon the wall, the master approached the fire with a discontented air, distributed several rude kicks among his dogs, to make them move out of his way, and threw himself heavily in his chair, saying to his hounds, sharply:
"Get out, you lazy, clumsy wretches! you are much more worthy to turn the spit than to follow the chase of a noble animal. . . . To give out after a five-hours' run, and all because the haunt of the wild boar is too brambly! You have, it seems, become very delicate! Hum! and even you, old Ralph!" he added, with a furious look, aiming a kick at the dog thus addressed.