issue from the glen.

"Fritz," said Sperver, "we are in the bed of the Tunkelbach. This is the
wildest spot in the Black Forest. The end is a pit called La Marmite du
Grand Gueulard, the muckle-mouthed giant's kettle. In the spring, when
the snow is melting, the Tunkelbach hurls all its waters into it, a depth
of two hundred feet. There is an awful uproar; the waters dash down and
then splash up again and fall in spray on all the hills around. Sometimes
it even fills the Roche Creuse, but just now it must be as dry as a
powder-flask."

Whilst I was listening to Gideon's explanations I was at the same time
meditating upon this dark and fearful glen, and I reflected that the
instinct which attracts the brutes into such retreats as these, far from
the light of heaven, away from everything bright and cheerful, must
partake of the nature of remorse. Those animals which love the open
sunshine--the goat aloft upon a high conspicuous peak, the horse flying
across the wide plain, the dog capering round his master, the bird bathed
in sunlight--all breathe joy and happiness; they bask, and sing, and
rejoice in dancing and delight. The kid nibbling the tender grass under
the shade of the great trees is as poetic an object as the shelter that
it loves; the fierce boar is as rough as the tangled brakes through which
he loves to run his huge bristly back; the eagle is as proud and lofty as
the sky-piercing crags on which he perches as his home; the lion is as
majestic as the arching vaults of the caves where he makes his den; but
the wolf, the fox, and the ferret seek the darkness that conforms to
their ugly deeds; fear and remorse dog their steps.

I was still dreamily pursuing these thoughts, and I was beginning to feel
the keen air moving upon my face, for we were approaching the outlet of