I can’t resist the bugle-horn. When the hunters call, I feel as if I’m jumping out of my skin. My sister must let me out of the house, and I must run. The king chases me through the wood, all day long, and I try to escape him.
Yesterday, however, the game changed. The huntsmen surrounded me, and one of them wounded me in the foot. I limped back to the cottage, bleeding.
This morning when we hear the bugle-horn, my sister won’t let me go. Weeping, she says, “This time they will kill you and I will be left alone in the forest, forsaken by everyone.”
I struggle to get away. I have to run. Even if I am wounded, even if I die, I have to run. The thirst is too great.