“No, not this hour,” replied Oddo, in a low voice, which sank to a whisper as he said, “I have left Hund laying the troughs to water the meadow, and if he misses me, I don’t care. I could not stay;—I could not help coming;—and if he kills me for telling you, he may, for tell you I must.”
And Oddo went to close and fasten the door, and then he sat down on the ground, rested his arms on his grandfather’s knees, and told his story in such a low tone that no “little bird” under the eaves could “carry the matter.”
“O grandfather, what a mind that fellow has! he will go crazy with horror soon. I am not sure that he is not crazy now.”
“He has murdered Rolf, has he?”
“I can’t be sure, but the oddest thing is that he mixes up wolves with his rambling talk. Rolf can hardly have met with mischief from any wolf at this season.”
“No, boy; not Rolf. But did not. Hund speak of orphan children, and how wolves have been known to devour them when snow was on the ground?”
“Why, yes,” said Oddo, surprised at such a guess.
“There was a reason for Hund’s talking so of wolves, my dear. Tell me quick what he said of Rolf, and what made him say anything to you,—to an inquisitive boy like you.”
“He is like one bewitched, that cannot hold his tongue. While I was bringing the troughs, one by one, for him to lay, where the meadow was dryest, he still kept muttering and muttering to himself. As often as I came within six yards of him, I heard him mutter, mutter; then, when I helped him to lay the troughs, he began to talk to me. I was not in the mind to make him many answers, but on he went, just the same as if I had asked him a hundred questions.”
“It was such an opportunity for a curious boy, that I wonder you did not.”