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First there was a ringing, brisk summons-that was the morning

call; then yelp upon yelp whined forth-that was the baying of the

dogs; and here and there was a harsher tone like thunder-that was

the shooting.

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.

He began once more. You might think that the horn was changing

its form, and that in the Seneschal's lips it grew now thicker

and now thinner, imitating the cries of animals; once, prolonging

itself into a wolf's neck, it howled long and piercingly; again,

as if broadening into a bear's throat, it roared; then the

bellowing of a bison cut the wind.

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. Hearing this masterpiece of horn music, the oaks

repeated it to the oaks and the beeches to the beeches.