The old poacher took out of his leathern jacket a bit of a blackened
pipe; he filled it at his leisure, gathered up in the hollow of his hand
a live ember, which he placed upon the bowl of his pipe; then with his
eyes dreamily cast up to the ceiling he answered meditatively--

"Old falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks, when they have long swept the
plains, end their lives in a hole in a rock. Sure enough I am fond of the
wide expanse of sky and land. I always was fond of it; but instead of
perching by night upon a high branch of a tall tree, rocked by the wind,
I now prefer to return to my cavern, to drink a glass, to pick a bone of
venison, and dry my plumage before a warm fire. The Count of Nideck does
not disdain Sperver, the old hawk, the true man of the woods. One
evening, meeting me by moonlight, he frankly said to me, 'Old comrade,
you hunt only by night. Come and hunt by day with me. You have a sharp
beak and strong claws. Well, hunt away, if such is your nature; but hunt
by my licence, for I am the eagle upon these mountains, and my name is
Nideck!'"

Sperver was silent a few minutes; then he resumed--

"That was just what suited me, and now I hunt as I used to do, and I
quietly drink along with a friend my bottle of Affenthal or--"

At that moment there was a shock that made the door vibrate; Sperver
stopped and listened.

"It is a gust of wind," I said.

"No, it is something else. Don't you hear the scratching of claws?