"A simple, credulous fellow, a true peasant of the Schwarzwald, untouched by the outer world," he told himself. "He should be useful to us." Then, passing to him the wicker-covered bottle, he said:--
"Good Rhine wine from Bacharach, Hans. Taste it!"
"Ach, from Bacharach on the Rhine,
Comes the finest sort of wine,"
exclaimed the stranger in the rude dialect of the Black Forest, and his round eyes sparkled as he clutched the bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank half a pint without stopping to take breath.
"'Tis a long time since I tasted such rich and luscious wine, gentlemen," said the peasant, handing back the bottle.
"Pray be seated and rest awhile," urged his companions, and nothing loath to keep such excellent company, Hans, if such was really his name, sat down by the fire.
"Pray, what brings you to the lonely Schwarzwald, gentlemen? Have you come to hunt for the wild boar, or to fish the mountain streams?" he asked, "for I can show you where the biggest fish are to be found, and where the wild pig rears her litters."
"Butterflies and birds, especially birds," replied Keane, pointing to his nets, and his neat little boxes for packing specimens.
"Birds? Ach, there is one bird which sometimes flies in these parts which you will never catch," said the peasant, speaking in lowered tones, as though half-frightened by his own words.
"Ha! What bird is that?" asked the others.