These words of the knight echoed loudly; there was no voice like his, deep as thunder and carrying far.
The young Amazon allowed the knight who had called her his niece to put his arm about her and kiss her blushing cheek, for in those days the Hungarian woman still blushed even if the kiss came from a kinsman's lips.
"Is it to no purpose that she sprang from my blood? shall she not match the best man in fearlessness? Have no anxiety for her, she will face greater dangers than these and bring her husband to them too."
With these words the hero put spurs to his horse; the startled creature reared and plunged but the hard knees of his rider brought him under control.
"Follow me," he cried, and the brilliant company vanished in the thicket of the forest.
Let us arrive there before them. Let us hurry to the place where the stags take their noonday rest in the shady grove, where the turtles sun themselves and the herons bathe. What dwellings are these in groups of fives and sixes between the water and the wilderness—these huts built up on piles with round roofs clay-covered and bound with twigs? Who built this dam, and for what purpose, so that the water at the entrance of their dwellings should never fail? Here dwell the dear, industrious beavers whom Nature has taught the art of building. This is their colony. These thick beams they have hewn with their teeth. They have shaped all this,—they have dug down into the earth to build a dam, and year after year they keep this dam in repair. See, at this very moment comes one gliding out from the lowest story of his dwelling below the water; with what a gentle eye he looks around him; as yet he has never seen a human being. But let us go back to the day of the hunt. In the shadow of an old hollowed tree was resting a family of deer—stag, doe and little fawns. The stag had stepped into the sunlight where he might see his own shadow; his stately form seemed to please him; he licked his bright coat, scratched his back with his branching antlers and walked proudly, stepping high with a certain affectation; the movements of his slender figure were marked by the play of his muscles. The doe lay lazily in the muddy sedge; at times raising her beautiful head, her great dark eyes full of feeling, she gazed at her companion or at the sporting fawns; if she noticed that they were too far away she gave a certain restless moaning cry, at which the lively creatures would hasten to her, tumbling over each other, leaping and bounding about the mother, never an instant quiet, their limbs quivering and every movement quick and graceful. Suddenly the stag stood fixed. Scenting danger he gave a cry and lifted his nose; his nostrils dilated as he snuffed the air, pawed the ground and ran restlessly about, angrily shaking his antlers; again he stood still and his wide-opened eyes showed instinctive fear; he ran to his precious doe and with unspeakable tenderness they put their two heads together,—they too have a language in which they understand each other. The two fawns fled to their mother, their slender legs trembling. Then the stag with long, noiseless stride, made his way into the forest. The doe remained licking her trembling fawns, who returned the motherly caresses with their little red tongues. At every noise she raised her head and pricked up her ears; suddenly she bounded into the air; she had heard something hardly perceptible to human ear; far, far away there was a sound in the forest; hunters know this sound well—the chase had begun. The doe cast restless glances about her, then quietly lay down; she knew that her mate would come back and that she must wait for him. Nearer and nearer came the chase. Soon the stag came noisily back and turned with a peculiar sound to his mate, who at once sprang up and with her young fled straight across the line of chase. The stag stood still for a moment, digging up the ground with his antlers, either with rage or to efface the traces of his mate's lying there. Then he stretched his neck and barked loudly in imitation of the hounds, to lead them on a false scent; a trick often observed by hunters. He then bounded away, tossing his antlers, and followed the doe. Ever nearer came the chase; with the barking of dogs was heard also the cracking of the underbrush and the shouts of the hunters. The forest became alive: the startled hares and foxes ran among the trees in every direction to escape the cries of the men. Now and then a fox fled in haste to a hole, only to bound back again frightened by the fiery eyes of the badger. Among the timid hares a grey striped wolf stood forgetful of his thirst for blood; switching his tail he looked about him for some possible escape and ran howling on, driven by the nearing voices.
Yet no one was hunting these poor creatures—a greater quarry was the game,—a stag with mighty antlers.
The hunting net was drawn closer and closer, already the dogs were on the track and the horn gave a signal that they were near the stag. "Hurrah, hurrah!" rang out from afar. The hunters coming from the opposite direction halted and blocked the way. The noise of the pursuers came rapidly nearer. Suddenly, a peculiar noise was heard; the two deer with their young broke through the bushes and disappeared; between them and the hunters was a wide ravine; the noble quarry leaped like lightning over the tree trunks lying in the way, and at last reached the ravine. Before and behind were the hunters, but the pursuit from behind was more terrible; there were the knight, the fearless Amazon and the eager hunter. The stag bounded across the broad ravine without the slightest effort, raising both feet at once and throwing back his head; the doe too made ready for the leap but her young shrank back from the edge; then the doe gave out, her knees sank, her head drooped, and she stayed with her young. A lance hurled by the Transylvanian hunter pierced her side. The wounded creature gave a distressed cry, like the wail of a human being only more terrible. Even her murderer in his pity did not venture to approach her until her struggles were over. The two fawns stood sorrow-stricken by their mother and allowed themselves to be taken alive. Meanwhile the stag, already across the ravine, dashed wildly toward the hunters before him, who blocked his way, and tossed his heavy antlers in fury. The hunters knew the courage born of despair which comes to these animals otherwise so timid, and throwing themselves to the ground, gave him free pass. Only a few hounds ran after him, but the maddened creature tossed them on his antlers and leaving them to roll on the ground in their blood, plunged on to the swamp.
"After him," roared the knight with thundering voice, and galloped at full speed to the ravine over which the stag had fled.