“I think I need my supper,” thought he. “Fasting makes a fellow light-headed.”
Entering the kitchen with exultant heart but studied indifference, he threw his game down on the table before the admiring cook, and then hastened to change his dress. Soon, over a good supper, he had forgotten the uncanny night outside, though the wind still howled and the rain beat against the window.
After supper Max went into the library. How cosy and comfortable it was, with a fire in the grate, an easy-chair drawn in front of it, and the shadows dancing over books and pictures!
“I’ll sit here in front of the fire and rest,” thought he. He sat there mentally reviewing the day’s sport. “I need a good dog,” he said. “I must have one. Why, what is that?” For there, lying in front of the fire, basking in the heat, was an immense dog, with shaggy coat and pointed ears. Max called to him:—
“Here, old fellow; here, Bran,—why, he knows his name. How did I come to know it, I wonder!” For at the first call, the dog had raised his head and beat his great tail upon the floor. At the mention of his name he sprang to his feet, and came crouching and trembling with joy to lick the hands and shoes of the lad.
“What is it then, good dog? Tell me your story, for I’m sure you have one to tell,” coaxed Max.
Did he tell it, or did Max dream? For as the dog rested his head on the boy’s knee and looked with liquid, loving eyes into his face, Max glanced round the room and saw a strange transformation: the walls widened, the ceiling rose to a greater height, and was crossed by great black beams. On the walls hung shields, spears, great swords, and numerous other articles of war and of the chase.
The polished grate had grown into an immense fireplace, and the floor was covered with what Max supposed were rushes. But the people in the room interested him most of all. On the opposite side of the fireplace, in a great carven chair, sat a lady, young and very lovely,—her dress some rich dark green material clasped at the throat and waist by heavy golden clasps, her bare arms heavy with gold armlets, her long black hair falling in shining waves around her, and her eyes,—the sea was in them,—gray or dark blue, and in moments of anger flashing greenish yellow like the eyes of some animal.
She sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her head resting on her hand, looking into the fire and listening to the music of an ancient harper, who sat in the background, softly striking the chords of his harp.
The firelight, dancing over the room, caused strange shadows; and Max fancied himself one of the shadows, for his chair was filled by a boy of his own age, sitting just as he had been sitting, with the great dog’s head on his knee; and notwithstanding his strange dress, Max started with a feeling almost of terror, for the boy was his double; it was like seeing himself in the glass.