“Which way did he go?”
“I would tell you directly; only I did not see him go.”
The Lord of Vez cast an angry look at Thibault.
“Is it some while ago the buck passed this way, Master Simpleton?”
“Not so very long, my Lord.”
“About how long ago?”
Thibault made as if trying to remember; at last he replied:
“It was, I think, the day before yesterday,” but in saying this, the shoe-maker, unfortunately, could not suppress a grin. This grin did not escape the Baron, who, spurring his horse, rode down on Thibault with lifted whip.
Thibault was agile, and with a single bound he reached the shelter of his lean-to, whither the wolf-hunter could not follow, as long as he remained mounted; Thibault was therefore in momentary safety.
“You are only bantering and lying!” cried the huntsman, “for there is Marcassino, my best hound, giving cry not twenty yards off, and if the deer passed by where Marcassino is, he must have come over the hedge, and it is impossible, therefore, that you did not see him.”