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."

"Heaven be praised!" cried Morok, clasping his hands with intense
satisfaction.