It is a dog that has escaped. Open, Lieverlé, open, Blitzen!" cried
the huntsman, rising; but he had not gone a couple of steps when a
formidable-looking hound of the Danish breed broke into the tower, and
ran to lay his heavy paws on his master's shoulders, licking his beard
and his cheeks with his long rose-coloured tongue, uttering all the while
short barks and yelps expressive of his joy.

Sperver had passed his arm round the dog's neck, and, turning to me,
said--

"Fritz, what man could love me as this dog does? Do look at this head,
these eyes, these teeth!"

He uncovered the animal's teeth, displaying a set of fangs that would
have pulled down and rent a buffalo. Then repelling him with difficulty,
for the dog was re-doubling his caresses--

"Down, Lieverlé. I know you love me. If you did not, who would?"

Never had I seen so tremendous a dog as this Lieverlé. His height
attained two feet and a half. He would have been a most formidable
creature in an attack. His forehead was broad, flat, and covered with
fine soft hair; his eye was keen, his paws of great length, his sides
and legs a woven mass of muscles and nerves, broad over the back and
shoulders, slender and tapering towards the hind legs. But he had no
scent. If such monstrous and powerful hounds were endowed with the scent
of the terrier there would soon be an end of game.

Sperver had returned to his seat, and was passing his hand over
Lieverlé's massive head with pride, and enumerating to me his excellent