Before Eloise could reply to my unintentionally brutal remark, a figure came out from amidst the trees and towards us. It was one of the jägers. A man past middle age, bent and warped like a tree that has stood the tempest for years.
This man's name was Vogel, and good cause I have to remember that name.
"Aha!" said he. "The children! Fräulein Eloise, Gretel is seeking for you in the house."
We rose.
"Come," said Eloise. And I was turning to go with her, but Vogel, who held a stick in one hand and a small penknife in the other, said to me as he whittled at the stick:
"See you, have you ever made a whistle?"
"No," I replied, interested, despite the man's German accent and his face, which was not attractive, for his cheeks were sucked in as though he were perpetually drawing at a pipe, and his nose, too small for his face, was hooked. I have never seen a nose so exactly like the beak of a screech-owl.
Vogel, without a word, sat down and began cutting away at the whistle.
"Are you not coming?" said little Eloise.
"In a minute," I replied, looking over Vogel's shoulder at his handiwork.