distant object, would explain--

"That is the Wald Horn; this is the Tiefenthal; there's the fall of the
Steinbach; it has stopped running now; it is hanging down in great
fringed sheets, like the curtains over the shoulder of the Harberg--a
cold winter's cloak! Down there is a path that leads to Fribourg; in a
fortnight's time it will be difficult to trace it."

Thus our time passed away.

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 Sébalt 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 Sébalt! 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