a grey mare. What’s that? No, nothing—no, I tell you, on my word, I set more store by a good gelding or an English dog. That for your Otto!’
‘He’s not my Otto,’ growled Kuno.
‘Then I don’t know whose he is,’ was the retort.
‘You would put your hand in the fire for him to-morrow,’ said Kuno, facing round.
‘Me!’ cried the huntsman. ‘I would see him hanged! I’m a Grünewald patriot—enrolled, and have my medal, too; and I would help a prince! I’m for liberty and Gondremark.’
‘Well, it’s all one,’ said Kuno. ‘If anybody said what you said, you would have his blood, and you know it.’
‘You have him on the brain,’ retorted his companion. ‘There he goes!’ he cried, the next moment.
And sure enough, about a mile down the mountain, a rider on a white horse was seen to flit rapidly across a heathy open and vanish among the trees on the farther side.
‘In ten minutes he’ll be over the border into Gerolstein,’ said Kuno. ‘It’s past cure.’
‘Well, if he founders that mare, I’ll never forgive him,’ added the other, gathering his reins.
