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He blew again. In the horn there seemed to be a hundred horns;

one could hear mingled outcries of setting on the dogs, wrath and

terror of the hunters, the pack, and the beasts: finally the

Seneschal raised his horn aloft, and a hymn of triumph smote the

clouds.

Here he broke off, but he still held the horn. It seemed to all

that the Seneschal was still playing on, but that was the echo

playing. In the wood there seemed to be a horn for every tree;

one repeated the song to another, as though it spread from choir

to choir. And the music went on, ever broader, ever farther, ever

more gentle, and ever more pure and perfect, until it died away

somewhere far off, somewhere on the threshold of the heavens!