He crossed the high-arched bridge over the rushing dam, and looked
through the little window into the woodman's hut.
It was a low, dark shed leaning against a hollow in the rock. At the
farther end of the natural cavity was a small pile of smouldering
sawdust. In the front the boarded roof, weighted with heavy stones,
descended to within three feet of the ground; in a corner at the right,
a kind of box, full of dried heather; a few logs of oak, an axe, a
massive bench, and other implements of toil, were lost in the shade.
A resinous odour of pine-wood impregnated the air, and the ruddy smoke
eddied through a fissure in the rock.
Whilst the good man was observing these objects, the woodman, coming out
from the mill, saw him, and cried--
"Halloo!--who is that?"
"I beg your pardon; pray pardon me," said my worthy uncle, rather
startled. "I am a traveller who has lost his way."
"Hey!" cried the other man; "good guide us! Is not that Maitre Bernard,
of Saverne? You are very welcome indeed, Maitre Bernard. Don't you know
me?"
"No, indeed! How should I in this dark night?"
"_Parbleu!_--of course not! But I am Christian; I bring you your
contraband snuff every fortnight.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263