‘I shall find something,’ replied the other. ‘Better see first whether they are hungry. Poor Herr Greif will not eat much—’
‘No—but only potatoes, Berbel!’
‘Potato dumplings are good things,’ observed the woman.
‘And fried potatoes with a stewed hare are better,’ she added after a pause.
‘Is there a hare, then? Oh, Berbel, you dear old thing, how could you frighten me in that way! Where did you get it? We have not had one for ever so long!’
‘Wastei,’ answered Berbel. Being interpreted, the name signifies Sebastian.
‘And Wastei must have got it by poaching—?’ Hilda’s face fell.
‘No—the forester has given him a licence this year, and I mended his breeches. There you have the whole history.’
Hilda’s spirits revived immediately and she broke into a merry laugh, just as the sound of the horses’ bells was heard jingling in the castle-yard below the window. She ran down the stairs to meet her mother and Greif. The story of the hare and Wastei’s breeches had almost chased away her good intentions to look appropriately sad. The hideous tragedy of the Greifensteins was very far from her simple young life.
The great carriage swung round and drew up before the door of the hall, and Hilda was already standing upon the low steps. She had thrown back her hood when she had descended from the battlements, and had not replaced it. Her glorious hair looked like bright gold against the darkness of the hall behind her, and as the cloak fell from her on each side, the black of her dress suddenly threw out by contrast the brilliancy of her face. In another moment her mother and she were clasped in each other’s arms, while Greif stood beside them on the steps.