“No—not a bear,” panted Saxe. “I saw it—last night. Horrible—horrible.”
“Don’t rave like a hysterical girl, my lad,” cried Dale, grasping Saxe’s arm. “Now, then: speak out—like a man. Is it the body of some poor creature dead?”
“No—no,” said Saxe, struggling to master himself, and now speaking calmly: “I went to the fall to drink in the middle of the night, and I saw it there. It cast lumps of ice at me, and I saw it close to the lanthorn.”
“A wild beast?”
“No,” said Saxe, with a shudder.
“Come; you must not be scared like that, my lad. What was it?”
“I don’t know; unless it is true that there are gnomes and kobolds, and this is one.”
“Well, then, boy—it is not true, and this is not one.”
“No—no: of course not,” said Saxe, who was now strung up. “It must be a man.”
“Of course. What do you say, Melchior?”