The charcoal burner, the mountain sawyer, the wielder
of the broad axe among the congregated pines of Grunewald, proud of
their hard hands, proud of their shrewd ignorance and almost savage
lore, looked with an unfeigned contempt on the soft character and
manners of the sovereign race.
The precise year of grace in which this tale begins shall be left to
the conjecture of the reader. But for the season of the year
(which, in such a story, is the more important of the two) it was
already so far forward in the spring, that when mountain people
heard horns echoing all day about the north-west corner of the
principality, they told themselves that Prince Otto and his hunt
were up and out for the last time till the return of autumn.
At this point the borders of Grunewald descend somewhat steeply,
here and there breaking into crags; and this shaggy and trackless
country stands in a bold contrast to the cultivated plain below. It
was traversed at that period by two roads alone; one, the imperial
highway, bound to Brandenau in Gerolstein, descended the slope
obliquely and by the easiest gradients. The other ran like a fillet
across the very forehead of the hills, dipping into savage gorges,
and wetted by the spray of tiny waterfalls. Once it passed beside a
certain tower or castle, built sheer upon the margin of a formidable
cliff, and commanding a vast prospect of the skirts of Grunewald and
the busy plains of Gerolstein.
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