Still he
growled. For a moment he would stop abruptly with his nose snuffing close
to the wall, next the floor, with strong respirations; then he would rise
again in a fresh rage, and with his forepaws seemed as if he would break
through the granite.
We watched in silence without being able to understand what caused his
excitement.
Another yell of rage more terrible than the first made us spring from our
seats.
"Lieverle! what possesses you? Are you going mad?"
He seized a log and began to sound the wall, which only returned the
dead, hard sound of a wall of solid rock. There was no hollow in it; yet
the dog stood in the posture of attack.
"Decidedly you must have been dreaming bad dreams," said the huntsman.
"Come, lie down, and don't worry us any more with your nonsense."
At that moment a noise outside reached our ears. The door opened, and the
fat honest countenance of Tobias Offenloch with his lantern in one hand
and his stick in the other, his three-cornered hat on his head, appeared,
smiling and jovial, in the opening.
"_Salut! l'honorable compagnie!_" he cried as he entered; "what are you
doing here?"
"It was that rascal Lieverle who made all that row.
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