After a few moments, the loft is shaken by a hoarse roaring from below.
“Judas! be quiet!” exclaims the Prophet, in a menacing tone, as he turns his head towards the trap door.
Another deep growl is heard, formidable as distant thunder.
“Lie down, Cain!” cries Morok, starting from his seat.
A third roar, of inexpressible ferocity, bursts suddenly on the ear.
“Death! Will you have done,” cries the Prophet, rushing towards the trap door, and addressing a third invisible animal, which bears this ghastly name.
Notwithstanding the habitual authority of his voice—notwithstanding his reiterated threats—the brute-tamer cannot obtain silence: on the contrary, the barking of several dogs is soon added to the roaring of the wild beasts. Morok seizes a pike, and approaches the ladder; he is about to descend, when he sees some one issuing from the aperture.
The new-comer has a brown, sun-burnt face; he wears a gray hat, bell crowned and broad-brimmed, with a short jacket, and wide trousers of green cloth; his dusty leathern gaiters show that he has walked some distance; a game-bag is fastened by straps to his back.
“The devil take the brutes!” cried he, as he set foot on the floor; “one would think they’d forgotten me in three days. Judas thrust his paw through the bars of his cage, and Death danced like a fury. They don’t know me any more, it seems?”
This was said in German. Morok answered in the same language, but with a slightly foreign accent.
“Good or bad news, Karl?” he inquired, with some uneasiness.
“Good news.”
“You’ve met them!”
“Yesterday; two leagues from Wittenberg.”
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