The young man was standing before her and working at something; he was, namely, cutting out a pen for her.  For at last the girl had said she would of course have to send news as to where she was, and request permission to remain a few days longer at the Oberhof.  He stood on the opposite side of the little table, and in a glass between him and the girl a white lily and a rose, freshly cut, were emitting a sweet perfume.  He did not hurry unduly with his work; before he applied the knife he asked the girl several times whether she preferred to write with a soft or a hard point, fine or blunt, and whether he should make the quill short or leave it long.  He plied her with numerous other questions of this kind, as thoroughly as if he were a writing-master producing a calligraphic work of art.  To these detailed questions the girl, in a low voice, made many indefinite replies; now she wanted the pen cut so, now so, and every once in a while she looked at him, sighing each time she did it.  The youth sighed even more often, I do not know whether it was on account of the indefiniteness of her answers, or for some other reason.  Once he handed the pen to her, so that she might indicate how long she wanted the slit to be.  She did so, and when she handed the pen back to him, he seized something more than the pen—­namely, her hand.  His own hand grasped it in such a way that the pen fell to the floor and for a moment was lost to their memories, all consciousness on both their parts being directed to their hands.

I will betray a great secret to you.  The youth and the girl were the Hunter and the beautiful, blond Lisbeth.

The wounded girl had been carried to her room on that night, and the Justice, very much perturbed—­something he seldom was—­had come out of his room and sent immediately for the nearest surgeon.  The latter, however, lived an hour and a half’s ride from the Oberhof; he was, moreover, a sound sleeper, and reluctant to go out at night.  Thus, the morning had already dawned when he finally arrived with his meagre outfit of instruments.  He removed the cloth from her shoulders, examined the wound, and made a very grave face.  Luckily, the young Suabian’s charge had merely grazed Lisbeth; only two shot had penetrated her flesh, and these not very deeply.  The surgeon extracted them, bandaged the wound, recommended rest and cold water, and went home with the proud feeling that if he had not been summoned so promptly and had not so cheerfully done his duty, even in the night, gangrene would inevitably have resulted from the wound.

Lisbeth, while they were waiting for the doctor, had been very calm; she had scarcely uttered a complaint, although her face, which was deathly pale, betrayed the fact that she was suffering pain.  Even the operation, which the surgeon’s clumsy hand caused to be more painful than was necessary, she had undergone bravely.  She asked for the shot and presented them jokingly to the Hunter.  They were “sure shot,” she said to him—­he should keep them, and they would bring him luck.