y.

I could not tear myself away from so beautiful a prospect. A few birds
of prey, with wings hollowed into a graceful curve sharp-pointed at each
end, the fan-shaped tail spread out, were silently sweeping round the
rock-hewn tower; herons flew unscathed above them, owing their safety
from the grasp of the sharp claws and the tearing beak to the elevation
of their flight.

Not a cloud marred the beauty of the blue sky; all the snow had fallen to
earth; once more the huntsman's horn awoke the echoes.

"That is my friend Sebalt lamenting down there," said Sperver. "He knows
everything about horses and dogs, and he sounds the hunter's horn better
than any man in Germany. Listen, Fritz, how soft and mellow the notes
are! Poor Sebalt! he is pining away over monseigneur's illness; he cannot
hunt as he used to do. His only comfort is to get up every morning at
sunrise on to the Altenberg and play the count's favourite airs. He
thinks he shall be able to cure him that way!"

Sperver, with the good taste of a man who appreciates beautiful scenery,
had offered no interruption to my contemplations; but when, my eyes
dazzled and swimming with so much light, I turned round to the darkness
of the tower, he said to me--

"Fritz, it's all right; the count has had no fresh attack."

These words brought me back to a sense of the realities of life.

"Ah, I am very glad!"

"It is all owing to you, Fritz."

"What do you mean? I have not prescribed yet."

"What signifies? You were there; that was enough."

"You are only joking, Gideon! What is the use of my being present if
I don't prescribe?"

"Why, you bring him good luck!"

I looked straight at him, but he was not even smiling!

"Yes, Fritz, you are just a messenger of good; the last two years the
lord had another attack the next day after the first, then a third and
a fourth. You have put an end to that. What can be clearer?"

"Well, to me it is not so very clear; on the contrary, it is very
obscure."

"We are never too old to learn," the good man went on. "Fritz, there are
messengers of evil and there are messengers of good. Now that rascal
Knapwurst, he is a sure messenger of ill. If ever I meet him as I am
going out hunting I am sure of some misadventure; my gun misses fire, or
I sprain my ankle, or a dog gets ripped up!--all sorts of mischief come.
So, being quite aware of this, I always try and set off at early
daybreak, before that author of mischief, who slee