"No! those are holes made by the young calves from some neighbouring farm, that came to drink here," I replied, repressing a laugh.
"Nonsense! Henri; calves, indeed! they are the marks of buffaloes and wild boars. You cannot deceive me; for I know something about such things. Why, this Mare is, I have no doubt, the rendezvous of all the beasts of the forest for ten miles round. Thank you, I don't intend to remain here."
"Not remain! why you will, if you are correct, have far better fun than we shall. Come, get into the hut."
"Remain with me, and divide the honour of the sport."
"Me? no: I thank you,—adieu! and keep your eyes about you."
"Halloo! Henri, come back. By the spectacles of my grandmother, what will become of me? I am a fool! I have lost my sight—I have forgot my eye-glass."
"Try to do without it."
"Impossible! it is useless—without an eye-glass I cannot see a yard before me; I shall most certainly leave this Mare. I shall be off with you."
"My dear sir," said I to him, "you must know and feel that if I thought there was the most remote chance of danger, I would not leave you alone; you really have nothing to fear—if you come with me, you will be dreadfully in the way, and without doing the least possible good. The huts are so very small, that there is only sufficient room for one: we shall kill nothing, and be laughed at into the bargain."