At this, the rider, who was none other than the noble Count Bernard of Bois Varne, quickly drew rein and, turning, called to his companion:
“Ho, Brian! Heardest thou aught?”
“Nay, my Lord,” answered Brian, who was some paces behind, “naught save the trampling of our own horses’ hoofs.”
The count looked all around, and seeing nothing, thought himself mistaken in the sound, and began to pace on. Then Félix in terror gave another shout, this time louder, and at the same moment a little twig he was pressing with his elbow broke away and dropped, striking against the count’s stirrup; for the bridle-path wound directly under the tree where Félix was perched.
The count instantly checked his horse again, and, peering up into the boughs overhead, he caught sight of Félix, his yellow hair wet with dew and shining in the moonlight, and his dark eyes wide with fear.
“Heigh-ho!” exclaimed the count, in blank amazement. “Upon my word, now! what art thou—boy or goblin?”
At this Félix gave a little sob, for he was very tired and very cold. He hugged the tree tightly, and steadying himself against the boughs, at last managed to falter out:
“Please thee, sir, I am Félix Michaud, and my lamb Beppo, who was to ride in the Christmas procession, ran off to-day, and—and—I have been hunting him, I think, ever since—since yesterday!” Here poor Félix grew a trifle bewildered; it seemed to him so very long ago since he had set out in search of Beppo. “And I live in Sur Varne.”