"Hermann Löwe, the Herr Graf wants to see you. He has shot a little fawn; but he won't let me bring it."
Hermann rose up, with a flush of vexation over his face. He did not look at his companions, but he knew that they were smiling.
"Young idiot!" he said, when they were out of earshot, "why didst thou come and say so before all the people?"
"The Herr Graf——"
"Der Teufel! Hast thou no head on thy shoulders?"
The Count was mortally frightened to meet Hermann. He did not know in what manner to conduct himself: whether he should carelessly joke away the matter, or overawe his forester by the grandeur of his demeanour.
"I see," said Hermann, when he came up; "the Herr Graf will not believe me that there is always time to look—that when there is no time to look, one need not waste powder."
"Bah! stuff! nonsense! I tell you, when they are running like infernal hares, how am I to look at their size to a nicety?"
"The fawns don't run so quickly," said Hermann, respectfully, but firmly.
"Hermann Löwe," said the Count, hotly, "I suppose you're my servant?"