Suddenly he was roused from his deep melancholy by the lively boy, who had taken an old hunting-spear from the corner of the room, and placing himself before the Count, said—
“See! thus my father kills the wild boar on the mountains—there runs one along! My father cries 'Huy!' and immediately the wild boar throws himself upon the hunter’s spear; the spear sticks deep into the brain! it is hard enough to draw it out!” The boy made actions as if the boar was there.
“Right so, my boy!” said the aged man; “but does thy father, then, often hunt upon these mountains?”
“Yes! that he does, and the neighbours praise him highly, and call him the valiant extirpator, because he kills the boars which destroy the corn!”
In the midst of this conversation the father entered; his wife ran towards him, pressed his sinewy hand, and spoke—
“You have had again a hot labouring day!”
“Yes,” said the man, “but I find the heavy pickaxe light in hand when I think of you. God is gracious to the industrious and honest labourer, and that he feels truly when he has sweated through a long day.”
“Our father is without!” cried suddenly the boy; threw the hunter’s spear into the middle of the room, and ran forwards. The little girl was already hanging at his knees.
“Good evening, father,” cried the boy, “come quick into the room,—there sits a stranger-man—a pilgrim whom I have brought to you!”
“Ah! there you have done well,” said the father, “one must not allow one tired to pass one’s gate without inviting him in. Dear wife,” continued he, “does not labour well reward itself, when one can receive and refresh a wanderer? Bring us a glass of our best home-grown wine—I do not know why I am so gay to-day, and why I do not experience the slightest fatigue.”