He took the lead, and we pressed into a narrow gorge between two walls of precipitous rock. The fir-trees formed an arch above our heads; beneath our feet trickled what the frost had left of a mighty torrent, and from time to time a wandering ray penetrated the obscurity, and reflected the dull, lead-colored ice mantle. The darkness had become such that I deemed it wise to let my bridle fall on the horse's neck. The steps of our horses on the slippery pebbles reëchoed with an odd noise like the laughing and chattering of monkeys through the narrow glen. The rocks took up and repeated every sound, and in the distance a blue point seemed to grow as we advanced. It was the outlet of the gorge.
"Gaston," said Sperver, "we are now in the bed of the Tunkelbach. It is the wildest pass in all the Black Forest, and it terminates in a cave called La Marmite du Grand Guelard. In the spring, when the snow is melting, the Tunkelbach pours all its torrents into it to a depth of two hundred feet. It makes a tremendous roar; the waters leap over the edge, and their spray falls upon the neighboring mountains. Sometimes they even flood the cavern of the Roche Creuse, but just now it must be as dry as a powder-flask, and we can build a big fire there."
As I listened to Sperver's observations, I was at the same time considering this ominous defile, and reflecting that the instinct of the savage beasts, which seek such retreats far from the light of day and from all that gladdens the soul, must be akin to remorse. The creatures that live in the sunshine,—the goat on the open crag, the horse running free on the plain, the dog frisking about his master, the bird basking in the sunshine,—all breathe in joy and happiness with their gambols and their songs. The kid, browsing in the shade of the great trees on the green hillside, is as poetic an object as the retreat that he prefers; the wild boar, as fierce and savage as the trackless brakes through which he roams; the eagle as proud and lofty as the towering peaks where he rests in his sweeping flight; the lion as majestic as the mighty arches of his den,—but the wolf, the fox, and the ferret seek the darkness, with fear their only companion; aye, this instinct is closely related to remorse.
I was still reflecting upon these things and already felt the keen air blowing against my face—for we were approaching the opening of the gorge—when suddenly we perceived a reddish reflection dancing upon the rock a hundred feet above us, turning to purple the dark green of the firs, and making the frost wreaths on the tree trunks glitter.
"Ha!" whispered Sperver hoarsely, "we've got the witch!"
My heart leaped; we moved along pressed close against each other. The dog growled warningly.
"Can't she escape us?"
"No; she is caught like a rat in a trap. La Marmite du Grand Guelard has but one outlet, and we are barring it. Everywhere else the rocks rise sheer two hundred feet. Ha! you Satan's hag, I've got you!"
He sprang from his horse into the ice-cold water of the Tunkelbach, handing me his bridle. I shivered. The click of his rifle as he cocked it sounded with fearful distinctness, and the sound sent a nervous wave clear to my finger-tips.
"Sperver, what are you doing?"