It took us an hour to get through this patch of woods. The old poacher gnawed his mustache with vexation, and his long nose almost touched his chin. When I tried to speak, he interrupted me shortly, crying:
"Don't talk; it bothers me!"
At last we descended into a valley to the left, and Gideon, pointing to the she-wolf's steps, running parallel with the edge of the undergrowth, remarked:
"This is no false sortie; we can follow it confidently.
"How do you know?"
"Because the Black Plague has a habit, whenever she doubles on her tracks, of going three steps to one side, then, retracing them, taking four, five or six in the other direction, and finally jumping into a clear space. But when she thinks she has covered the trail, she strikes out without troubling herself about false scents. Look! what did I tell you? She is burrowing now into the brushwood like a wild boar; it will be easy enough to follow her here. So much for that; and now, let's keep the tracks between us and light a pipe!"
We halted, and the good fellow, whose face was beginning to brighten up, looked at me with enthusiasm, crying:
"Gaston, this promises to be one of the finest days in my life. If we take the old creature, I will fasten her to the saddle behind me like a bundle of old rags. Only one thing troubles me."
"What's that?"
"Having forgot my horn. I should like to have sounded the return as we were approaching Nideck. Ha! Ha! Ha!"