Two wide roads meet upon the verge of the forest of Velours. There come two horsemen, riding swiftly as the wind, and place themselves each by Gaston's side. He on the right, mounted on a white horse, is radiant and of noble mien; his eyes shine with a heavenly light, and his clothing, glistening like snow, exhales a perfume sweeter than the meadows on a morning of Spring. The rider on the left is of sullen countenance, and swarthy of aspect; his glance stern and forbidding. His hair is blacker than the raven's wing; and his garments, darker than the night, emit an odour of sulphur. His steed glows like a flame of fire.
"Friends," cries Gaston, "Welcome to you both. In happy hour you have come, to hunt the great woods with me. Fair fall us then! there is no sport, in heaven or on earth, like the chase—above all when we hunt in goodly company."
The horseman on the right speaks: "Young seigneur, the bell calls you; listen to its plaintive note chiming, from far away, through the trees. Return; or misfortune will befall you. Let us kneel together at the altar of Christ. Already, before daybreak, I heard mass, and sang the Alleluia; willingly will I do so again by your side. Come! Our duty done, sweeter by far will be the pleasures of the chase."
"Ride, noble baron, ride," cries the black horseman. "Do not listen to this ill counsellor. The bugle blast is finer music than the chiming of bells, and the hunt better pastime far than a dull priest's sermon, and the droning of hymns."
"Well said, friend on my left!" cries Gaston. "Without offence to the white horseman, you are jovial company, after my own heart. We young lords want lively sport and merry jests; let us leave sermons and paternosters to the monks."
Gaston has unleashed his hounds. Caressing them with eye and hand, urging them on with voice and gesture, he looses them upon the scent. With heads held low and wagging tails, baying with deep bell notes, they dash through the forest upon the track of the game. The baying redoubles, as, plunging into a thick copse, they come upon the lair of a great wolf. With bristling hair, fiery eyed, and snarling horribly, for an instant the fierce brute faces the hounds, then turns, and flies through the forest. Vainly he seeks the thickest brakes, the most secret hollows; always the ravening pack is at his heels.
At length the wolf gains the open country, and the chase follows him: the blast of Gaston's horn has collected the scattered huntsmen. Far, far they gallop, by cornfields and meadows, over weald and waste.
From a hamlet before them, comes tripping a little shepherdess at the head of her flock. The road is narrow and bordered by hedges. All in tears, the child cries out to Gaston: "Be merciful, sweet lord, be merciful; spare my flock. For pity's sake, do not destroy the widow's sheep, and our dear little lambs."
"Have pity, for your soul's sake," cries the white horseman. "Do not scorn her prayers nor her tears; they will rise to God, and cry out for vengeance against you there."
"Ride down lambs and sheep," replies the black rider. "What are they—that they should spoil a young lord's sport? For such a trifle must we let our prey escape us?"