In a forest of mixed growth somewhere on the eastern spurs of the Carpathians, a man stood one

winter night watching and listening, as though he waited for some beast of the woods to come

within range of his vision, and, late; of his rifle. But the game for whose presence he kept so

keen an outlook was none that figured in the sportsman’s calendar as lawful and proper for the

chase; Ulrich von Gradwitz patrolled the dark forest in quest of a human enemy.

The forest lands of Gradwitz were of wide extent and well stocked with game; the narrow strip

of precipitous woodland that lay on its outskirt was not remarkable for the game it harboured or

the shooting it afforded, but it was the most jealously guarded of all its owner’s territorial

possessions. A famous lawsuit, in the days of his grandfather, had wrested it from the illegal

possession of a neighbouring family of petty landowners; the dispossessed party had never

acquiesced in the judgment of the Courts, and a long series of poaching affrays and similar

scandals had embittered the relationships between the families for three generations. The

neighbour feud had grown into a personal one since Ulrich had come to be head of his family; if

there was a man in the world whom he detested and wished ill to it was Georg Znaeym, the

inheritor of the quarrel and the tireless game-snatcher and raider of the disputed border-forest.

The feud might, perhaps, have died down or been compromised if the personal ill-will of the two

men had not stood in the way; as boys they had thirsted for one another’s blood, as men each

prayed that misfortune might fall on the other, and this wind-scourged winter night Ulrich had

banded together his foresters to watch the dark forest, not in quest of four-footed quarry, but to

keep a look-out for the prowling thieves whom he suspected of being afoot from across the land

boundary. The roebuck, which usually kept in the sheltered hollows during a storm-wind, were

running like driven things to-night, and there was movement and unrest among the creatures that

were wont to sleep through the dark hours. Assuredly there was a disturbing element in the

forest, and Ulrich could guess the quarter from whence it came.

He strayed away by himself from the watchers whom he had placed in ambush on the crest of

the hill, and wandered far down the steep slopes amid the wild tangle of undergrowth, peering

through the tree-trunks and listening through the whistling and skirling of the wind and the

restless beating of the branches for sight or sound of the marauders. If only on this wild night, in

this dark, lonely spot, he might come across Georg Znaeym, man to man, with none to witness—

that was the wish that was uppermost in his thoughts. And as he stepped round the trunk of a

huge beech he came face to face with the man he sought.

The two enemies stood glaring at one another for a long silent moment. Each had a rifle in his

hand, each had hate in his heart and murder uppermost in his mind. The chance had come to give

full play to the passions of a lifetime. But a man who has been brought up under the code of a

restraining civilisation cannot easily nerve himself to shoot down his neighbour in cold blood

and without word spoken, except for an offence against his hearth and honour. And before the

moment of hesitation had given way to action a deed of Nature’s own violence overwhelmed

them both. A fierce shriek of the storm had been answered by a splitting crash over their heads,

and ere they could leap aside a mass of falling beech tree had thundered down on them. Ulrich

von Gradwitz found himself stretched on the ground, one arm numb beneath him and the other

held almost as helplessly in a tight tangle of forked branches, while both legs were pinned

beneath the fallen mass. His heavy shooting-boots had saved his feet from being crushed to

pieces, but if his fractures were not as serious as they might have been, at least it was evident that

he could not move from his present position till someone came to release him. The descending

twigs had slashed, the skin of his face, and he had to wink away some drops of blood from his

eyelashes before he could take in a general view of the disaster. At his side, so near that under

ordinary circumstances he could almost have touched him, lay Georg Znaeym, alive and

struggling, but obviously as helplessly pinioned down as himself. All round them lay a thick-
strewn wreckage of splintered branches and broken twigs.

Relief at being alive and exasperation at his captive plight brought a strange medley of pious

thank-offerings and sharp curses to Ulrich’s lips. Georg, who was nearly blinded with the blood

which trickled across his eyes, stopped his struggling for a moment to listen, and then gave a

short, snarling laugh.

“So you’re not killed, as you ought to be, but you’re caught, anyway,” he cried; “caught fast.

Ho, what a jest, Ulrich von Gradwitz snared in his stolen forest. There’s real justice for you!”

And he laughed again, mockingly and savagely.

“I’m caught in my own forest-land,” retorted Ulrich. “When my men come to release us you

will wish, perhaps, that you were in a better plight than caught poaching on a neighbour’s land,

shame on you.”

Georg was silent for a moment; then he answered quietly:

“Are you sure that your men will find much to release? I have my men, too, in the forest to-
night, close behind me, and they will be here first and do the releasing. When they drag me out

from under these damned branches it won’t need much clumsiness on their part to roll this mass

of trunk right over on the top of you. Your men will find you dead under a fallen beech tree. For

form’s sake I shall send my condolences to your family.”

“It is a useful hint,” said Ulrich fiercely. “My men had orders to follow in ten minutes’ time,

seven of which must have gone by already, and when they get me out—I will remember the hint.

Only as you will have met your death poaching on my lands, I don’t think I can decently send

any message of condolence to your family.”

“Good,” snarled Georg, “good. We fight this quarrel out to the death, you and I and our

foresters, with no cursed interlopers to come between us. Death and damnation to you, Ulrich

von Gradwitz.”

“The same to you, Georg Znaeym, forest-thief, game-snatcher.”

Both men spoke with the bitterness of possible defeat before them, for each knew that it might

be long before his men would seek him out or find him; it was a bare matter of chance which

party would arrive first on the scene.

Both had now given up the useless struggle to free themselves from the mass of wood that held

them down. Ulrich limited his endeavours to an effort to bring his one partially free arm near

enough to his outer coat-pocket to draw out his wine-flask. Even when he had accomplished that

operation it was long before he could manage the unscrewing of the stopper or get any of the

liquid down his throat. But what a Heaven-sent draught it seemed! It was an open winter, and

little snow had fallen as yet, hence the captives suffered less from the cold than might have been

the case at that season of the year; nevertheless, the wine was warming and reviving to the

wounded man, and he looked across with something like a throb of pity to where his enemy lay,

just keeping the groans of pain and weariness from crossing his lips. © 2004 by

“Could you reach this flask if I threw it over to you?” asked Ulrich suddenly; “there is good

wine in it, and one may as well be as comfortable as one can. Let us drink, even if to-night one of

“No, I can scarcely see anything; there is so much blood caked round my eyes,” said Georg,

“and in any case I don’t drink with an enemy.”

Ulrich was silent for a few minutes, and lay listening to the weary screeching of the wind. An

idea was slowly forming and growing in his brain, an idea that gained strength every time that he

looked across at the man who was fighting so grimly against pain and exhaustion. In the pain and

languor that Ulrich himself was feeling the old fierce hatred seemed to be dying down.

“Neighbour,” he said presently, “do as you please if your men come first. It was a fair

compact. But as for me, I’ve changed my mind. If my men are the first to come you shall be the

first to be helped, as though you were my guest. We have quarrelled like devils all our lives over

this stupid strip of forest, where the trees can’t even stand upright in a breath of wind. Lying here

to-night, thinking, I’ve come to think we’ve been rather fools; there are better things in life than

getting the better of a boundary dispute. Neighbour; if you will help me to bury the old quarrel

I—I will ask you to be my friend.”

Georg Znaeym was silent for so long that Ulrich thought, perhaps, he had fainted with the pain

of his injuries. Then he spoke slowly and in jerks. To the reader: this is posted so that you’ll know that someone has stolen this story from another source.

“How the whole region would stare and gabble if we rode into the market-square together. No

one living can remember seeing a Znaeym and a von Gradwitz talking to one another in

friendship. And what peace there would be among the forester folk if we ended our feud to-night.

And if we choose to make peace among our people there is none other to interfere, no interlopers

from outside. . . . You would come and keep the Sylvester night beneath my roof, and I would

come and feast on some high day at your castle. . . . I would never fire a shot on your land, save

when you invited me as a guest; and you should come and shoot with me down in the marshes

where the wildfowl are. In all the countryside there are none that could hinder if we willed to

make peace. I never thought to have wanted to do other than hate you all my life, but I think I

have changed my mind about things too, this last half-hour. And you offered me your wine-flask.

. . . Ulrich von Gradwitz, I will be your friend,”

For a space both men were silent, turning over in their minds the wonderful changes that this

dramatic reconciliation would bring about. In the cold, gloomy forest, with the wind tearing in

fitful gusts through the naked branches and whistling round the tree-trunks, they lay and waited

for the help that would now bring release and succour to both parties. And each prayed a private

prayer that his men might be the first to arrive, so that he might be the first to show honourable

attention to the enemy that had become a friend.#$!@ #$# ~~ #

Presently, as the wind dropped for a moment, Ulrich broke silence.@#$ &# ~

“Let’s shout for help,” he said; “in this lull our voices may carry a little way.”

“They won’t carry far through the trees and undergrowth,” said Georg, “but we can try.

Together, then.”

The two raised their voices in a prolonged hunting call.

“Together again,” said Ulrich a few minutes later, after listening in vain for an answering

“I heard something that time, I think,” said Ulrich.

“I heard nothing but the pestilential wind,” said Georg hoarsely.

There was silence again for some minutes, and then Ulrich gave a joyful cry.

“I can see figures coming through the wood. They are following in the way I came down the

Both men raised their voices in as loud a shout as they could muster.

“They hear us! They’ve stopped. Now they see us. They’re running down the hill towards us,”

“How many of them are there?” asked Georg.

“I can’t see distinctly,” said Ulrich; “nine or ten.”

“Then they are yours,” said Georg; “I had only seven out with me.”

“They are making all the speed they can, brave lads,” said Ulrich gladly.

“Are they your men?” asked Georg. “Are they your men?” he repeated impatiently as Ulrich

did not answer.

“No,” said Ulrich with a laugh, the idiotic chattering laugh of a man unstrung with hideous

“Who are they?” asked Georg quickly, straining his eyes to see what the other would gladly

not have seen.