The distant village clock had struck twelve, then one, and two, and the young gipsy never stirred. In the woods and jagged mountaintops, the crags, the forests, descending into the valleys, she heard some mysterious call. They spoke to her in a language not unknown to her. "Yes," she said to herself, "yes; I have seen all that beforelong agoa long time ago." Then with a quick, sharp glance at Fritz, who was in a deep sleep, she rose to her feet and began to fly. Her light footsteps scarcely bent the grass beneath her; she ran on and on, up the hill; Friedland turned his head round with a careless glance, then stretched out once more his languid limbs, and composed himself to sleep. Myrtle disappeared in the midst of the brambles which border the common wood. At one bound she cleared the muddy ditch where a single frog was croaking amongst the rushes, and twenty minutes after she reached the top of the Roche Creuse, whence you may have a wide prospect of Alsace and the blue summits of the Vosges. Then she turned to see if anybody was following her. She could still distinguish Fritz asleep in the green meadow with his hat over his eyes, and Friedland and the sleeping cattle under their tree. Farther on she could see the village, the river, the roof of the farmhouse, with its flights of pigeons eddying round; the long, crooked street and redpetticoated women walking leisurely up and down; the little ivycovered church where the good cur Niclausse had baptised her into the Christian faith and afterwards confirmed her. And when she had sufficiently contemplated these objects, turning her face the other way towards the mountain, she was filled with delight to mark how the denselycrowded firs covered the hillsides, up to their highest ridge, close as the grass of the fields. At the sight of all this grandeur the young gipsy felt her heart beating and expanding with unknown delight, and again running on she darted through a rift between the rocks, lined with mosses and ferns, to reach the beaten track through the woods. Her whole soulthat wild, untrained soul of herswas rushing with her and impelling her onwards, kindling her countenance with a new ardour. With her hands she clung to the ivy, with her naked feet she clung to the projections and the crevices to push on her way. Soon she was on the other slope, running, tripping, leaping, sometimes stopping short to gaze upon surrounding objectsa large tree, a ravine, a lonely sheet of water, or a pond full of flowers and sweetsmelling waterplants. Although she could not remember ever having seen those copses, those clearings, those heaths, at every turn in the path she would say to herself, "There, I knew it was so! I knew that tree would be there! I was sure of that rock! And there's the waterfall just below!" Although a thousand strange remembrances passed with momentary flashes, like sudden visions, through her mind, she could not understand it all and could explain nothing. She had not yet been able to say to herself, "What Fritz and the rest of them want to make them happy is the village, and the meadow, and the farmhouse, and the fruittrees, and the orchard, and the milkcows, and the laying hens; plenty in the cellar, plenty in the granary, and a nice warm fire on the hearth in winter. But what have I to do with all these things? Wasn't I born a heathen, quite a heathen? I was born in the woods, just as the squirrel was born in an oak, just as a hawk was hatched on the crag and the thrush in the firtree!" It is true she had never thought of these things, but she was guided by instinct; and this mysterious force drew her unconsciously about sunset to the bare heaths of the Kohle Platz, where the gangs of gipsies that wander between Alsace and Lorraine are accustomed to stay the night, and hang up their kettles among the dry heath. Here Myrtle sat down at the foot of an old oaktree, tired, footsore, and ragged; and here she long sat motionless, gazing into vacant space, listening to the rustling of the wind amongst the tall firtrees, happy, and feeling herself quite alone in the wide solitude. Night came. The stars broke out by thousands in the purple depths of the autumn sky. The moon rose and silvered with soft light the white stems of the birchtrees, which hung in graceful groups along the mountain sides. The young gipsy was beginning to yield to sleep when cries in the distance roused her into an impulse to fly. Hark! She knows the voices! They are those of Brmer, Fritz, and all the people of the farm searching for her! Then, without a moment's hesitation, Myrtle flew, light as a roe, farther into the forest, stopping only at long intervals to listen attentively and anxiously. The cries died away in the distance, and soon the only sound she could hear was the loud beating of her own heart, and she went on her way at a less rapid pace. Very late, when the moon's rays became less brilliant, unable to stand out against her fatigue any longer, she sank down on the heath and fell fast asleep. She was four leagues from Dosenheim, near the source of the Zinzel. Brmer was not likely to come so far to look for her. CHAPTER II. It was broad daylight when Myrtle awoke amidst the deep solitudes of the Schlossberg, beneath an old firtree overgrown with moss and lichen. A thrush was whistling overhead; another was answering in the distance far down the valley. The morning breeze was fanning the rustling foliage; but the air, already warm, was loaded with the sweet perfumes of the groundivy, the honeysuckle, the woodruff, and the sweetbriars. The young gipsy opened her eyes with astonishment remembering, with surprise and delight, that the voice of Catherine would no more trouble her, calling, "Myrtle! Myrtle! where are you, you idle child?" she smiled, and listened to what gave her pleasure, the note of the thrush singing among the trees. Near at hand a spring was bubbling out of a cleft; the girl had but to look round to see the living stream running, sparkling and clear, amidst the long grass. From the rock high overhead hung an arbutus loaded with its gorgeous freight of scarlet berries. Though Myrtle was thirsty she felt too idle to move amongst all this beauty and all this harmony, and she dropped her pretty brown face, smiling and admiring the daylight through her long dark lashes. "This is how I am always going to be," she said. "How can I help it? I am an idle girl. I was made so." Dreaming in this lazy way, the picture rose up in her mind of the farmyard with the proud cock strutting among his hens, and then she remembered the eggs, how they used to find them in the straw in some corner of the barn. "If I had a couple of hardboiled eggs," she thought, "just like those Fritz had yesterday in his bag, with a crust of bread and a little salt, I should like it very well. But what signifies? When you can't get eggs you have blackberries and whinberries." A scent of whinberries made her little nostrils dilate with expectation. "There are some here," she said; "I can smell them." She was right. The wood was full of them. In another minute, not hearing the thrush, she raised herself on her elbow and noticed the bird picking at the arbutusberries. Then she went to the brook and took a little clear water in her hollow hand, and observed that there was plenty of watercress. Then she remembered what she had never taken the trouble to think of before, some words of the cur, Niclausse about the birds of the air that God provided for, and the lilies of the field that were more beautiful than the glory of Solomon, and she remembered the lesson about not being anxious for food and clothing, and thought that that would just suit her, for she did not think of any of the teaching of the same great Teacher about industry, and frugality, and living honestly, and so she came to the satisfying conclusion that the true heathens were Catherine and all her people, who were so foolish and wicked as to plough, and sow, and reap, while she was the good Christian, because she was as idle as the day was long. She was still dwelling on these satisfactory deductions when there was a sudden rustling among the dead leaves and a noise of footsteps. She was going to run away when a gipsy lad of eighteen or twenty appeared before hera tall, lithe, dark fellow with thick woolly hair, shining black eyes, and thick parted lips. His eyes glittered as he cried "Almni!" "Almni!" replied Myrtle, moved with much interest. "Ha, ha!" cried the lad, "what gang do you go with?" "I don't knowI am looking for it." And without any concealment she told him how Brmer had found her and brought her up, and how she had escaped yesterday from his house. The young gipsy grinned, and showed a long double row of white teeth. "I am going to Hazlach," he cried. "Tomorrow there's a fte there; our band will all be therePfiffer Karl, Melchior, BlueTitmouse, Fritz the clarionet, CoucouPeter, and Magpie. The women are going fortunetelling, and we play the music. If you like, you may go with me." "I will," said Myrtle, looking down. Then he kissed her, laid his bag upon her back, and grasping his stick in both his hands, he cried "Now you are my wife! You will carry the bag for me, and I will keep you. Forward!" And now Myrtle, lazy as she had always been at the farm, started off with all possible willingness. He followed her, singing, and tumbling over on his hands and feet to express his joy! From that day Myrtle has never been heard of. Fritz almost died of grief when he found that she did not return; but a few years later he found comfort in marrying Gredel Dich, the miller's daughter, a fine, stout, active girl, who made him an excellent wife; and Catherine, his mother, was quite pleased, for Gredel Dich was quite an heiress! Only Brmer could not be comforted; he was as fond of Myrtle as if she had been his own child, and he drooped visibly from day to day. One winter's day when he had got up, and was looking out of the window, he saw a ragged but pretty gipsy girl passing through the village covered with snow, and with a heavy bag upon her shoulders, and sat down again with a deep sigh. "What is the matter, Brmer?" asked his wife. There was no answer. She came close. His eyes were closing. There he lay dead. UNCLE CHRISTIAN'S INHERITANCE When my excellent uncle Christian Has, burgomaster of Lauterbach, died, I had a good situation as matre de chapelle, or precentor, under the Grand Duke Yeri Peter, with a salary of fifteen hundred florins, notwithstanding which I was a poor man still. Uncle Christian knew exactly how I was situated, and yet had never sent me a kreutzer. So when I learned that he had left me owner of two hundred acres of rich land in orchards and vineyards, a good bit of woodland, and his large house at Lauterbach, I could not help shedding tears of gratitude. "My dear uncle," I cried, "now I can appreciate the depth of your wisdom, and I thank you most sincerely for your judicious illiberality. Where would now the money be, supposing you had sent me anything? In the hands of the Philistines, no doubt; whereas by your prudent delays you have saved the country, like another Fabius Cunctator "'Qui cunctando restituit rem' "I honour your memory, Uncle Christian! I do indeed!" Having delivered myself of these deep feelings, and many more which I cannot enter into now, I got on horseback and rode off to Lauterbach. Strange, is it not, how the Spirit of Avarice, hitherto quite a stranger to me, came to make my acquaintance? "Caspar!" he whispered, "now you are a rich man! Hitherto vain shadows have filled your mind. A man must be a fool to follow glory. There is nothing solid but acres, and buildings, and crownpieces, put out in safe mortgages. Fling aside all your vain delusions! Enlarge your boundaries, round off your estate, heap up money, and then you will be honoured and respected! You will be a burgomaster as your uncle was before you, and the country folks, when they see you coming a mile off, will pull off their hats, and say'Here is Monsieur Caspar Has, the richest man and the biggest herr in the country.'" These notions kept passing and repassing in my mind like the figures in a magiclantern, with grave and measured step. The whole thing seemed to me perfectly reasonable. It was the middle of July. The lark was warbling in the sky. The crops were waving in the plain, the gentle breezes carried on them the soft cry of the quail and the partridge amongst the standing wheat; the foliage was glancing in the sunshine, and the Lauter ran its course beneath the willows; but what was all that to me, the great burgomaster? I puffed up my cheeks and rounded off my figure in anticipation of the portly appearance I was to present, and repeated to myself those delightful observations "This is Monsieur Caspar Has; he is a very rich man! He is the first herr in the country! Get on, Blitz!" And the nag trotted forward. I was anxious to try on my uncle's threecornered hat and scarlet waistcoat. "If they fit me," I said, "what is the use of buying?" About four in the afternoon the village of Lauterbach appeared at the end of the valley, and very proud I felt as I surveyed the tall and handsome house of the late Christian Has, my future abode, the centre of my property, real and speculative. I admired its situation by the long dusty road, its vast roof of grey shingle, the sheds and barns covering with their broad expanse the wagons, the carts, and the crops; behind, the poultryyard, then the little garden, the orchard, the vineyards up the hill, the green meadows farther off. I chuckled with delight over all these comforts and luxuries. As I went down the principal street the old women with nose and chin nearly meeting at the extremity, the barepated children with ragged hair, the men in their otterskin caps, and silverchained pipes in their mouths, all gaze upon me, and respectfully salute me "Good day, Monsieur Caspar! How do you do, Monsieur Has?" And all the small windows were filled with wondering faces. I am at home now; I seem as if I had always been a great landowner at Lauterbach, and a notable. My kapellmeister's life seems a dream, a thing of the past, my enthusiastic fondness for music a youthful folly! How money does modify men's views of things! And now I draw bridle before the house of the village notary, Monsieur Becker. He has my titledeeds under his care, and is to hand them over to me. I fasten my horse to the ring at the door, I run up the steps, and the ancient scribe, with his bald head very respectfully uncovered, and his long spare figure clad in a green dressinggown with full skirts, advances alone to receive me. "Monsieur Caspar Has, I have the honour to salute you." "Your servant, Monsieur Becker." "Pray walk in, Monsieur Has." "After you, sir, after you." We cross the vestibule, and I find at the end of a small, neat, and wellaired room a table nicely and comfortably laid, and sitting by it a young maiden rosy and freshcoloured, the very picture of modesty and propriety. The venerable notary announced me "Monsieur Caspar Has!" I bowed. "My daughter Lothe!" added the good man. And whilst I felt in myself a reviving taste for the beautiful, and was admiring Mademoiselle Lothe's pretty little chubby nose, the rosy lips, and the large blue eyes, her dainty little figure, and her dimpled hands, Matre Becker invited me to sit down at the table, informing me that he had been expecting me, and that before entering on matters of business it would be well to take a little refreshment, a glass of Bordeaux, etc., an invitation of which I fully recognised the propriety, and which I accepted very willingly. And so we sit down. We talk first of the beautiful country. And I form opinions about the old gentleman, and wonder what a notary is likely to make at Lauterbach! "Mademoiselle, will you take a wing?" "Monsieur, you are very kind; thank you, I will." Lothe looks down bashfully. I fill her glass, in which she dips her rosy lips. Papa is in good spirits; he tells me about hunting and fishing. "Of course Monsieur Has will live as we do in the country. We have excellent rabbitwarrens. The rivers abound in trout. The shooting in the forests is let out. People mostly spend their evenings at the inn. Monsieur the inspector of woods and forests is a delightful young man. The jugedepax is a capital whistplayer," and so on, and so on. I listen, and think all this quiet life must be delightful. Mademoiselle Lothe pleases me a good deal. She does not talk much, but she smiles and looks so agreeable! How loving and amiable she must be! At last the coffee came, then the kirschwasser. Mademoiselle Lothe retires, and the old lawyer gradually passes to business. He explains to me the nature of my uncle's property, and I listen attentively. There was no part of the will in dispute; there were no legacies, no mortgages. Everything is clear and straightforward. Happy Caspar! Happy man! Then we went into the office to look over the deeds. The close air of this place of dry, hard business, those long rows of boxes, the files of billsall these together put weak notions of love out of my head. I sat down in an armchair while Monsieur Becker, collecting his thoughts, puts his horn spectacles in their place upon his long, sharp nose. "These deeds relate to your meadowland at Eichmatt. There, Monsieur Has, you have a hundred acres of excellent land, the finest and bestwatered in the commune; two and even three crops a year are got off that land. It brings in four thousand francs a year. Here are the deeds belonging to your vinegrowing land at Sonnenthl, thirtyfive acres in all. One year with another you may get from this two hundred hectolitres (4,400 gals.) of light wine, sold on the ground at twelve or fifteen francs the hectolitre. Good years make up for the bad. This, Monsieur Has, is your title to the forest of Romelstein, containing fifty or sixty hectares (a hectare is 212 acres) of excellent timber. This is your property at Hacmatt; this your pastureland at Tiefenthal. This is your farm at Grneswald, and here is the deed belonging to your house at Lauterbach; it is the largest house in the place, and was built in the sixteenth century." "Indeed, Monsieur Becker! but is that saying much in its favour?" "Certainly, certainly. It was built by Jean Burckhardt, Count of Barth, for a huntingbox. Many generations have lived in it since then, but it has never been neglected, and it is now in excellent repair." I thanked Monsieur Becker for the information he had given me, and having secured all my titledeeds in a large portfolio which he was good enough to lend me, I took my leave, more full than ever of my vast importance! Arriving before my house, I enjoyed introducing the key into the lock of the door, and bringing down my foot firmly and proudly on the first step. "This is all mine!" I cried enthusiastically. I enter the hall"Mine!" I open the wardrobes"Mine!" Mineall that linen piled up to the top! I pace majestically up the broad staircase, repeating like a fool, "This is mine, and that is mine! Here I am, owner of all this! No more uneasiness about the future! Not an anxious thought for the morrow! Now I am going to make a figure in the world!not on the weak ground of meritnot for anything that fashion can alter. I am a great man because I hold really and effectually that which the world covets. "Ye poets and artists! what are you in comparison with the rich proprietor who has everything he wants, and who feeds your inspiration with the crumbs that fall from his table? What are you but ornamental portions of his feasts and banquets, just to fill up a weary interval? You are no more than the sparrow that warbles in his hedges, or the statue that figures in his gardenwalk. It is by him and for him that you exist. What need has he to envy you the incense of pride and vanityhe who possesses the only solid good this world has to offer?" At that moment of inflated conceit if the poor Kapellmeister Has had appeared before me I might very likely have turned and looked at him over my shoulder and asked, "What fool is that? What business has he with me?" I threw a window open; evening was closing in. The setting sun gilded my orchards and my vines as far as I could see. On the declivity of the hill a few white patches indicated the cemetery. I turned round. A great Gothic hall, with rich mouldings decorating the ceiling, pleased my taste exceedingly. This was the Seigneur Burckhardt's huntingsaloon. An old spinet stood between two windows; I ran my fingers absently over the keys, and the loose strings jingled with the disagreeable squeaking of a toothless old woman trying to sing like a young damsel. At the end of this long apartment was an arched alcove closed in by deep red curtains, and containing a lofty fourpost bedstead with a kind of grand baldacchino covering it in. The sight of this reminded me that I had been six hours on horseback, and undressing with a selfsatisfied smirk on my face all the time "It is the first time," I said, "that I shall sleep in a bed of my own." And laying myself comfortably down, with my eyes dreamily wandering over the distant plains on which the shadows of evening were settling down, I felt my eyelids gently yielding to the sweet influence of sleep. Not a leaf was stirring; the village noises ceased one by one, the last golden rays of the sun had disappeared, and I dropped into the unconsciousness of welcome sleep. Dark night fell on the face of the earth, and then the moon was rising in all her splendour, when I awoke, I cannot tell why. The wandering scents of summer air reached me through the open window, fragrant with the sweet perfume of the newmown hay. I gazed with surprise, then I made an effort to rise and open the window, but some obstacle prevented me. To my astonishment, though my head was perfectly free to move in any direction, my body was buried in a deep sleep like a lump of lead. Not a single muscle obeyed my repeated efforts to raise my body; I was conscious of my arms lying extended near me, and my legs being stretched out straight and immovable; but my head was swaying helplessly to and fro. My breathing, deep and regularthe breathing of my body went on all the same, and frightened me dreadfully. My head, exhausted with its vain efforts to obtain obedience from the limbs, fell back in despair, and I said, "What! Is it paralysis?" My eyes closed. I was reflecting with a feeling of horror upon this strange phenomenon, and my ears were listening intently to the agitated beating of my heart, over whose hurried flow of blood the mind had no power. "What, what is this?" I thought presently. "Do my own body and limbs refuse to obey my will? Cannot Caspar Has, the undisputed lord of so many rich vineyards and fat pastures, move this wretched clod of earth which most certainly belongs to him? Oh, what does it all mean?" As I was thus wondering and meditating I heard a slight noise. The door of my alcove opened, and a man clothed in some stiff material resembling felt, such as is worn by the monks in the chapel of St. Werburgh at Mayence, with a broadbrimmed hat and feather pushed off from the left ear, his hands buried up to the elbows in gauntlets of strong untanned leather, entered the room. This gentleman's huge jackboots came over the knees, and were folded down again. A heavy chain of gold, with decorations suspended to it, hung from his shoulders. His tanned and angular countenance, his sallow complexion, his hollow eyes, bore an expression of bitterness and melancholy. This dismal personage traversed the hall with a hard and sounding step as measured as the ticking of a clock, and placing his skinny hand upon the hilt of an immense long rapier, and stamping with his heel on the floor, he uttered in a horribly disagreeable creaking voice resembling the grating of an engine these words, which dropped in a dry mechanical fashion from his ashy lips "This is minemineHans Burckhardt, Count of Barth!" I felt a creeping sensation coming all over me. At the same instant the door opposite flew open wide, and the Count of Barth disappeared in the next apartment; and I could hear his hard, dry automatic tread upon the stairs descending the steps, one by one, for a long time; there seemed no end to it, until at last the awful sounds died in the remote distance as if they had descended into the bowels of the earth. But as I was still listening, and hearing nothing further, all in a moment the vast hall filled as if by magic with a numerous company; the spinet began to jingle; there was music and singing of love, and pleasure, and wine. I gazed and saw by the bluishgrey moonlight ladies in the bloom of youth negligently floating over the floor, and chiefly about the old spinet; elegant cavaliers attired, as in the olden time, in innumerable dangling ribbons, and the very perfection of lace collars and ruffles, seated crosslegged upon goldfringed stools, affectedly inclining sidelong, shaking their perfumed locks, making little bows, studying all kinds of graceful attitudes, and paying their court to the ladies, all so elegantly, and with such an air of gallantry, that it reminded me of the old mezzotint engravings of the graceful school of Lorraine in the sixteenth century. And the stiff little fingers of an ancient dowager, with a parrot bill, were rattling the keys of the old spinet; bursts of thin laughter set discordant echoes flying, and ended in little squeaks with such a sharp discordant rattle of constrained laughter as made my hair stand on end. All this silly little worldall this quintessence of fashion and elegance, long out of date, all exhaled the acrid odour of rosewater and essence of mignonette turned into vinegar. I made new and superhuman exertions to get rid of this disagreeable nightmare, but it was all in vain. But at that instant a lady of the highest fashion cried aloud "Lords, you are at home here in all this domain" But she was cut short in her compliments; a silence like death fell on the whole assembly. They faded away. I looked, and the whole picture had vanished from my sight. Then the sound of a trumpet fell on my listening ears. Horses were pawing the ground outside, dogs were barking, while the moon, calm, clear, inviting to meditation, still poured her soft light into my alcove. The door opened as if by a blast of wind, and fifty huntsmen, followed by a company of young ladies attired as they were two centuries ago, in long trains, defiled with majestic pace out of one chamber into the other. Four servingmen passed amongst them, bearing on their brawny shoulders on a stout litter of oak boughs the bloody carcass of a monstrous wild boar, with dim and faded eye, and with the foam yet lying white on his formidable tusks and grisly jaws. Then I heard the flourishes of the brazen trumpets redoubled in loudness and energy; but silence fell, and the pomp and dignity, passed away with a sigh like the last moans of a storm in the woods; thennothing at allnothing to hearnothing to see! As I lay dreaming over this strange vision, and my eyes wandering vaguely over the empty space in the silent darkness, I observed with astonishment the blank space becoming silently occupied by one of the old Protestant families of former days, calm, solemn, and dignified in their bearing and conversation. There sat the whitehaired patriarch with the big Bible upon his knees; the aged mother, tall and pale, spinning the flax grown by themselves, sitting as straight and immovable as her own distaff, her ruff up to her ears, her long waist compressed in a stiff black bodice; then there sat the fat and rosy children, with serious countenances and thoughtful blue eyes, leaning in silence with their elbows on the table; the dog lay stretched by the great hearth apparently listening to the reading; the old clock stood in the corner ticking seconds; farther on in the shadow were girls' faces and young men, talking seriously to them about Jacob and Rachel by way of lovemaking. And this good family seemed penetrated with the truth of the sacred story; the old man in broken accents was reading aloud the edifying history of the settlement of the children of Israel in the Land of Canaan "This is the Land of Promisethe land promised to Abraham and Isaac and Jacob your fathersthat you may be multiplied in it as the stars of heaven for multitude, and as the sand which is upon the seashore. And none shall disturb you, for ye are the chosen people." The moon, which had veiled her light for a few minutes, reappeared, and hearing no more sounds of voices, I looked round, and her clear cold rays fell in the great empty hall. Not a figure, not a shade, was left. The moonlight poured its silver flood upon the floor, and in the distance the forms of a few trees stood out against the dark purple sky. But now suddenly the high walls appeared lined with books, the old spinet gave way to the secrtaire of some man of learning, whose fullbottomed wig was peering above the back of a redleather armchair. I could hear the quill coursing over the paper. The learned man, buried in thought, never moved; the silence was oppressive. But fancy my astonishment when, slowly turning, the great scholar faced me, and I recognised the portrait of the famous lawyer Gregorius, marked No. 253 in the portraitgallery at Darmstadt. How on earth had this personage walked out of his grave? I was asking myself this question when, in a hollow sepulchral voice, he pronounced these words "Dominorum, ex jur Quintio, est jus utendi et abutendi quatenus naturalis ratio patitur." As this sapient precept dropped oracularly from his lips, a word at a time, his figure faded and turned pale. With the last word he had passed out of existence. What more shall I tell you, my dear friends? For hours, twenty generations came defiling past me in Hans Burckhardt's ancient mansionChristians and Jews, nobles and commoners, fools and wise men of high art, and men of mere prose. Every one proclaimed his indefeasible right to the property; every one firmly believed himself sole lord and master of all he surveyed. Alas! Death breathed upon one after another, and they were all carried out, each as his turn came! I was beginning to be familiar with this strange phantasmagoria. Each time that any of these honest folks turned round and declared to me, "This is mine!" I laughed and said, "Wait a bit, my fine fellow!you will melt away just like the rest!" At last I began to feel tired of it, when far awayvery farthe cock crowed, announcing the dawn of day. His piercing call began to rouse the sleeper. The leaves rustled with the morning air; a slight shiver shook my frame; I felt my limbs gradually regaining their freedom, and, resting upon my elbow, I gazed with rapture upon the silent widespread land. But what I saw presently did not tend to exalt my spirits. Along the little winding path to the cemetery were moving, in solemn procession, all the ghosts that had visited me in the night. Step by step they approached the decaying mossgrown door of the sacred inclosure; that silent, mournful march of spectres under the dim grey light of early morning was a gaunt and fearful sight. And as I lay, more dead than alive, with gaping mouth and my face wet with cold perspiration, the head of the dismal line melted and disappeared among the weeping willows. There were not many spectres, left, and I was beginning to feel a little more composed, when the very last, my uncle Christian himself, turned round to me under the mossy gate and beckoned me to follow! A distant faint ironical voice said "Caspar! Caspar! come! Six feet of this ground belong to you!" Then he too disappeared. A streak of crimson and purple stretched across the eastern sky announced the coming day.


I need not tell you that I did not accept my uncle Christian's invitation, though I am quite aware that a similar call will one day arrive from One who must be obeyed. The remembrance of my brief abode at Burckhardt's fort has wonderfully brought down the great opinion I had once formed of my own importance, for the vision of that night taught me that though orchards and meadows may not pass away their owners do, and this fact compels to serious reflection upon the nature of our duties and responsibilities. I therefore wisely resolved not to risk the loss of manly energy and of the best prizes of life by tarrying at that Capua, but to betake myself, without further loss of time, to the pursuit of music as a science, and I hope to produce next year, at the Royal Theatre of Berlin, an opera which, I hope, will disarm all criticism at once. I have come to the final conclusion that glory and renown, which speculative people speak of as if they were mere smoke, is, after all, the most enduring good. Life and a noble reputation do not depart together; on the contrary, death confirms welldeserved glory and adds to it a brighter lustre. Suppose, for instance, that Homer returned to life, no one would dispute with him his claim to be the author of the Iliad, and each would vie with the rest to do honour to the father of epic poetry. But if peradventure some rich landowner of that day came back to assert a claim to the fields, the woods, the pastures of which he used to be so proud, ten to one he would be received like a thief and perhaps die a miserable death. THE BEARBAITING. "If any one thing distresses my dear aunt," said Caspar, "more than my fondness for Sbaldus Dick's tavern, it is that there is an artist in the family! "Dame Catherine would have been glad to see me an advocate, a priest, or a councillor. If I had become a councillor, like Monsieur Andreas Van Berghem; if I had snuffled out long and weary sentences, caressing my lace bands with dainty fingertips, with what esteem and veneration would not that worthy woman have regarded monsieur her nephew! She would have greeted Monsieur le Conseiller Caspar with profound respect; she would have set before me her best preserves, she would have poured out for me, in the midst of her circle of gossips, just a drop of Muscadel of the year XI. with "Pray take this, monsieur le conseiller; I have but two bottles left!" Anything that monsieur my nephew Caspar, conseiller at the court of justice, could do would certainly have been perfectly right and suitable, and quite perfect in its way. Alas for the vanity of human wishes! the poor woman's ambition was never to be gratified. Her nephew is plain CasparCaspar Diderich; he has no title, no wand of office, no big wighe is just an artist! and Dame Catherine has running in her head the old proverb, "Beggarly as an artist," which distresses her more than she can tell. At first I used to try to make her understand that a true artist is worthy of great respect, that his works sometimes endure for ages, and are admired by many successive generations, and that, in point of fact, a good artist is quite as good as a councillor. Unhappily, I failed to convince her; she merely shrugged her shoulders, clasped her hands in despair, and vouchsafed no answer. I would have done anything to convert my aunt Catherine to my viewsanything; but I would rather die than sacrifice art and an artist's life, music, painting, and Sbaldus's tavern! Sbaldus's tavern is delightful. It is the corner house between the narrow Rue des Hallebardes and the little square De la Cigogne. As soon as you are through the archway you find within a spacious square court, with old carved wooden galleries all round it, and a wooden staircase to reach it; everywhere are scattered in disorder small windows of last century with leaden sashes, skylights, and airholes; old wooden posts are nearly yielding under the weight of a roof that threatens to sink in. The barn, the rows of casks piled up in a corner, the cellar door at the left, a pigeoncote forming the point of the gable end; then, again, beneath the galleries, other darkened windows in the same style, where you can see swillers and topers in threecornered hats, distinguished by noses red, purple, or crimson; little women of Hundsruck, in velvet caps with long fluttering ribbons, some grave, some laughing, others queer and grotesquelooking; the hayloft high up under the roof; stables, pigsties, cowsheds, all in picturesque confusion attract and confound your attention. It is a strange sight! For fifty years not a hammer has been lifted against this venerable ruin. You would think it was left for the special accommodation of rats! And when the glowing autumn sun, red as fire, showers golden rain upon the decaying walls and timbers; when, as daylight fades into evening, the angular projections stand out more boldly, and the shadows deepen; when all the tavern rings with songs, and shouts, and roars of laughter; when fat Sbaldus, in leathern apron, runs to and from the cellar with the big jug in his hand; when his wife Gredel throws up the kitchen window, and with her long knife, well hacked along the edge, cleans the fish, or cuts the necks of hens, ducks, or geese which struggle and gurgle in their own blood; when pretty Fridoline, with her rosy little mouth and her long fair hair, leans out of her window to tend the honeysuckle, and over her head the neighbour's tabby cat is gently swaying her tail and watching, with her cunning green eyes, the swallow circling in the deepening purpleI do assure you that a man must be utterly devoid of taste for the picturesque not to stop and contemplate in ecstasy and listen to the murmuring sounds, or the louder din, or the falling whispers, and observe with an artist's eye the trembling lights, the flying shadows, and whisper to himself, "Is not this beautiful?" But you should see Matre Sbaldus's tavern on a great occasion, when all the jovial folks of Bergzabern crowd into the immense public roomsome day when a cockfight is going on, or a dogfight, or a magiclantern. Last autumn, on a Saturdayand it was Michaelmas Daywe were all sitting round the oaken table, between one and two o'clock in the afternoon; old Doctor Melchior, Eisenloffel the blacksmith, and his old wife, old Berbel Rasimus, Johannes the capuchin monk, Borves Fritz the clarionetplayer at the Pied de Boeuf, and half a hundred more, laughing, singing, drinking, playing at youker, draining jugs and glasses, eating puddings and andouilles. Mother Gredel was coming and going; the pretty maidservants, Heinrichen and Lott, were flying up and down the kitchen stairs like squirrels, and outside, under the broad archway, was the booming, and banging, and jingling of the big drum and the cymbals, while the exciting proclamation was being made "Ho! ho! hi! Great battle to come off! The Asturian bear, Beppo, and Baptist, the Savoyard bear, against all dogs that may come. Boom! boom! Walk in, ladies! Walk in, gentlemen! Here's the buffalo from Calabria, and the onagra of the desert! Walk in, walk in! Don't be frightened! All walk in!" And they did come in, in crowds. Sbaldus, barring the passage with his burly form, as Horatius guarded the bridge in the brave days of old, shouted to all "Your five kreutzers, friends and neighbours! Five kreutzers for admittance! Pay, or I'll throttle you!" It was an awful confusion; people climbed over each other's backs to get in faster, until Bridget Kra lost a stocking and Anna Seiler half her petticoat. About two, the bearleader, a tall, roughlooking fellow, with red ragged hair and beard, and mounting a high sugarloafed hat, pushed the door ajar, and cried, looking in "Just going to begin the fight!" In an instant all the tables were emptied, many an untasted glass being left upon it. I ran to the hayloft, climbed up the ladder four steps at a time, and drew it up after me. There, seated all alone upon a bundle of hay, just inside the little skylight, I had a capital view. What a throng! The old galleries were bending under their weight, the roofs were visibly swaying. I shuddered to think of what might happen. It seemed inevitable that they would all come down together like grapes in the winepress, heaped up in a sea of heads. They were hanging in clusters on the wooden pillars; yet higher in the gutters along the roof; yet higher about the pigeoncote; higher still over the skylights in the roof of the mairie; yet higher in the spire of St. Christopher's; and all this multitude were howling and shouting "The bears! the bears!" When I had sufficiently admired and wondered at the immense crowd, looking down I saw in the middle of the court a poor, wretched, depressedlooking donkey, lean and ragged, his sleepy eyes halfclosed, his ears hanging down. This dreadful object was to open the sports. "What fools some people are!" I thought. Minutes were passing away, the tumult increased, impatience was waxing into anger, when the great red scoundrel, with his immense sugarloaf hat, advanced carelessly into the middle of the open space, and cried solemnly, with his fist upon his hips "The onagra of the desert against any dog in the town!" There was a silence of astonishment. Daniel, the butcher, with staring eyes and gaping mouth, asks "Where is the onagra?" "There she stands!" "That! why, it's an ass!" "It's an onagra." "Well, let us see what it is," cried the butcher, laughing. He whistled his dog to come, and, pointing to the ass, cried "Foux, catch him!" But, strange to say, as soon as the ass saw the dog running to the attack, he turned nimbly round, and launched out with the whole length of his legso well aimed a kick that the dog fell back as if struck by lightning, with his jaw fractured! Loud laughter rang all round, while the poor dog fled with a piteous yell of pain. The bearleader smiled at the butcher, and asked "Well, what's your opinion? Is my onagra an ass?" "No," said Daniel, rather ashamed, "it is an onagra." "All right! all right! any more dogs coming to fight my desertborn, desertbred onagra? Come on, the onagra is ready!" But no one came forward; and the bearleader shouted in vain in his shrill tones "Gentlemen! ladies! are you all afraid? afraid of the onagra? The dogs of your town ought to be ashamed of themselves. Come on! courage, gentlemen! courage, ladies!" But no one was inclined to risk his dog's life or limbs against so dangerous an animal, and the cries for the bears were beginning again. "The bears! the bears! bring out the bears!" After waiting a quarter of an hour the fellow saw that his onagra was not likely to get any more customers, so, putting the beast up in the stable, he approached the pigsty, opened it, and drew out by his chain Baptiste, the Savoy bear, an old brute with a brown mangylooking coat, as sulky and ashamed as a sweep coming down a chimney. For all he was not handsome the shouts of applause rang out, and the fighting dogs themselves, shut into the tavern porch, smelling a wild beast, set up a tragic howl that made your hair stand on end. The miserable bear was led quietly enough to a stake firmly driven in the ground, to which he was chained, all the time slowly surveying the excited crowd with a melancholy eye. "Poor old traveller!" I cried to myself, "would anybody have told you ten years ago, when grave, terrible, and solitary you were traversing from side to side the high glaciers in Switzerland, in the gloomy glens of the Unterwald, and your deep growls made the old oaks tremble in every leafwho could have told you that the day would come when, sad and resigned, with an iron collar round your throat, you would be tied to a post and devoured by dogs to amuse a mob at Bergzabern? Alas! Sic transit gloria mundi!" As these meditations were occupying my thoughts, noticing that everybody was bending forward to see, I did like the rest, and I soon saw the possibility of warm work. A pair of boarhounds, belonging to old Heinrich, were being led to the other end of the court. Struggling in the chain, these ferocious creatures were foaming with rage. One was of the large Danish breed, white, with large black spots, supple of limb, with muscles like steel springs, jaws opening wide like an alligator's; the other a huge hound from the Tannewald, never disabled in one leg according to law, ribs barely covered, the backbone hard and knotted like a bamboo cane. They did not bark, but they were straining against the chain with all their might, and there stood old Heinrich with his grey broad head flung back, his ruddy moustache bristling, his thin razorbacked nose hooked over his lips, and his long leathergaitered legs firmly planted against the stones in his strenuous efforts to restrain with both hands the eager appetite of his dogs for the fight, while he opposed to their attempts to bound forward the whole weight of his body. "Back! back!" he shouted to the bearleader, and the ruffian ran back to the shelter of a faggotstack. Then every face bending over the galleries grew red and hot with the excitement of the horrid fray, and starting eyes glanced from every nook and corner. The bear sat on his haunches gathered together ready for action, his huge paws uplifted. I could see how he quivered in his rough skin, and his muzzle seemed to annoy him terribly. All at once the chain was slipped; at a single leap the hounds cleared the intervening space, and their sharp fangs were in a moment fixed in both poor Baptiste's ears, whose heavy paws and long sharp claws hugged each bitter enemy around the neck, slowly digging into their straining bodies till the blood spurted out in streams. But he, too, was bleeding, for his ears were suffering cruel lacerations; the dogs held on, and his tawny eyes were raised to the sky with a pitiable look of appeal. Not a cry, not a sigh or a groan escaped from a single combatant; the three animals formed a group as motionless as if they had been carved in wood. I could feel the perspiration running down my face. This went on for five minutes. At length the Tannenthaler seemed to be relaxing slightly; the bear weighed more heavily on him with his heavy paw, his eye kindling with a gleam of hope; then there was another brief pause. There was a horrid groan, a cracking; the hound's backbone was broken, and he fell back upon the stones, his jaws reeking with blood. Then Baptiste, with a tremor of delight, threw both paws round the Dane, who had not yet let go his hold, but his teeth were slipping from the torn and bloody ear. Suddenly he shook himself and sprang backward; the bear made a rush at his flying foe, but the chain held him back. The dog fled, red with blood, and only stopped when he had got safe behind his master, who gave him a favourable reception, while casting a glance at his other dog, which lay motionless. And here Baptiste placed his mighty paw upon the victim of his fury and his valour; carrying his head high, he snuffed the carnage with distended nostrils and panting sides; the veteran warrior was himself again. Frantic applause rose from the galleries to the church spire. The bear seemed to understand. I have never seen a more proud and resolute bearing. After this fight all the spectators were taking breath; the capuchin friar Johannes, seated upon the banister facing the field of battle, shook his stick, smiling with satisfaction in his long brown beard. People wanted a little relief; pinches of snuff were offered and accepted, and the voice of Doctor Melchior, discussing and explaining the different phases of the conflict, was heard over the noise of many talkers. But he had no time to finish his speech, for in a moment the barndoor flew open, and more than fiveandtwenty dogs, great and small, the very vagrants and scum of the town, offered up as a sacrifice to do honour to the occasion, wallowed in a heap into the yard, howling and yelling, barking, snapping, and snarling; then, as if second thoughts had rather modified their ideas about valour, they all retreated into a safe corner of the yard, the farthest from the bear, where they contented themselves with angry protests, making short runs at the enemy and quick retreats, making a very sorry pretence of war. "Oh, those cowardly curs! the miserable little brutes!" cried the valorous occupants in the gallery. And the much wiser and discreeter dogs looked up in answer, and seemed to say "Go yourselves!" Still the bear was standing well on the defensive when, to the general astonishment, Heinrich reappeared, holding his Danish hound by the chain. I have since been informed that he had wagered fifty florins with Joseph Kilian, the gamekeeper, that the boarhound would renew the attack. He advanced slowly, patting the dog with his hand, and saying persuasively "Good dog, Blitz! good dog!" And the noble animal, in spite of his bleeding wounds, rushed in; then the whole pack of mongrels, curs, puppies, lurchers, and turnspits ran in too in a long string, till poor Baptiste was covered with the vile rabble rout; he did what he could, he rolled over and over as far as his chain would let him, growling and grunting, crushing one, sending another away with a bite, struggling furiously. The brave Dane still showed the greatest intrepidity; he had caught the bear between the ears, and rolled over with him, his forelegs in the air, whilst the rest were biting, some his legs, and some his torn and bleeding ears. There seemed no end to this plague of dogs. "Enough! enough!" was the cry in every direction. Yet still some were not satisfied, and kept crying on the dogs. Heinrich at that moment darted across the yard like a flash of lightning; he seized his clog by the ear, and pulling it away with all his strength, cried "Blitz, Blitz, let go!" But this was of no use. At last the man succeeded in making him loose his hold by a tremendous cut with his whip across his body, and, dragging the animal away, they both disappeared under the archway. The mongrels had not waited for this event to give up the battle; four or five only still hung upon Bruin's side; the rest, scared, limping, yelping, were trying to find a way out. Suddenly one of those heroes, a cur belonging to Rasimus, caught sight of the kitchen window, and, fired by a noble enthusiasm for his safety, he crashed through glass and all. All the rest of the yelling crew, struck by the ingenuity of this plan, followed in the same road without a moment's hesitation. Plates and dishes, glasses and bottles, saucepans and kettles were all heard making a fearful clatter, while Mother Gredel rent the air with her piercing cries of "Help, help!" This was the best joke of the day. Roars of laughter hailed the propitious escape of the dogs, even at the cost of so much good crockery. They laughed till the tears came into their eyes, and rolled down their red faces, and they panted for breath. In a quarter of an hour there came a lull; then people began to think it was time for the terrible bear from Asturias to make his appearance. "The Asturian bear! the Spanish bear!" was the cry. The bearleader made signs to the people to be quiet, as he had something to say to them. It was impossible! The cries and the uproar redoubled. "The bear of Asturias! the bear of Asturias!" Then the fellow muttered a few unintelligible words, unfastened the brown bear, and took it back into its den; then with every appearance of precaution he loosened the door of the pigsty and took the end of a chain which was lying on the ground. A formidable growling was heard inside. The man quickly passed the chain through a ring in the wall and fled, crying "Now, you there, let the dogs go!" Immediately a black bear, low, and almost stunted in its stature, with a low forehead, ears wide apart, eyes red as fire, and glowing with a fierce sullen passion, hurled himself out into the open, and finding the chain fast in the wall, howled furiously. Evidently this was a bear of the most deplorably low moral character! Moreover, he had been roused to madness by the noise of the preceding combats, and his master had good reason for not trusting himself much to him. "Let go the dogs!" cried the bearleader, putting his head out of the granary skylight; "let them loose!" Then he added "If you are not satisfied this time it won't be my fault. There will be a battle now!" At that moment Ludwig Karl's big mastiff and Fischer de Heischland's pair of wolfhounds, with tails low, hair straight and smooth, heads advanced and ears erect, came into the court together. The heavyheaded mastiff calmly yawned as he stretched his sinewy legs and caved in his long back. But after a long and leisurely yawn he slowly turned round, and catching sight of the bear he stood immovable as if stupefied. The bear, too, fixed his vicious glowing eyes upon him with ears expanded and his huge claws indenting the ground under them. The wolfhounds drew up as reserves in the rear of the mastiff. Then such silence fell upon all that excited multitude that a dead leaf might have been heard rustling to the ground; but there followed a deep, low, fierce growl, like a coming thunderstorm, which sent a shudder through the crowd. Suddenly the mastiff sprang forward, the two others followed, and then for several seconds nothing was seen but a confused mass rolling round the chain, then blood and entrails mingled flowing over the stones, then the bear rising on his haunches hugging the mastiff between his terrible claws, swaying to and fro his heavy head, for a moment and gaping wide with his crimson jaws, for the muzzle was gone; in the struggle it had fallen off! Then a low but rising cry of fear passed over the crowd in the galleries. No applause now, only a wellgrounded alarm! The mastiff was in the agonies of death, with a rattling in his throat; the wolfhounds lay torn and dead on the bloodstained earth; in the stables all round the court long agitated roaring and bellowing betrayed the terror of the cattle, whose kicking and plunging made the walls shake; but the bear never stirred he seemed to be enjoying the universal alarm. But lo! in this predicament was heard a slight but unmistakable cracking like timber giving way, then more cracks; the old rotten galleries were beginning to yield under the heavy pressure of the crowd; and there was in this noise, just heard in the midst of the dead silence of suspense, something so dreadful that I, in my place of safety, felt a cold shiver pass over me. Taking a rapid survey of the galleries before me, I saw every face changed in colour, pale with a bluish, ashy paleness; some openmouthed, others with bristling hair, listening intently, holding their breath. The capuchin friar Johannes seated on the banister had turned from crimson to a greenish hue, and the big red nose of Doctor Melchior had turned from red to sallow the first time for twenty years; the poor little women trembled without stirring from their places, knowing that the least agitation would bring down the whole place. I could have wished to fly too. I fancied I could see the thick oaken pillars of the gallery bowing to the ground. I cannot tell whether this was illusion or not, but in a moment the principal beam gave a loud crack and became depressed by three inches at the least. Then, my friends, it was horrible to beholdthe deep silence of a minute before was succeeded by tumult, cries, screams, and ravings. That mass of human beings heaped up in the galleries, one above another, were some clutching the walls, the pillars, the banisters; others were fighting with fury, and even biting, to get away faster, and from the midst of this frightful confusion arose the plaintive voices of the suffering women. I shudder at the remembrance. Oh, may I never see such a sight as this again! But, most terrible circumstance of all, the bear was chained close by the staircase that leads up to the galleries! If I were to live a thousand years never should I forget the horror of Friar Johannes, who had cleared a way for himself with his long staff, and was placing his foot on the last step when he discovered, just before the bottom of the staircase, Beppo seated calmly on his tail, his chain tightened, his eye expressive of joy, ready to snap him up first! None can tell the muscular power which Matre Johannes was obliged to put forth to stem the force that was driving him in from behind. Convulsively grasping the banister with both hands, his broad shoulders formed a mighty buttress against the pressing flood. Like Atlas, I do believe he would have borne the earth upon his back to save his precious skin. In the midst of this confusion and tumult, and when there seemed no way to avert the threatening catastrophe, suddenly the door of the cattleshed opened violently, and the redoubtable Horni, Matre Sbaldus's magnificent bull, rushed into the arena, his massive dewlap shaking loosely like an apron, his tail extended straight, his mouth and nostrils white with fleecy foam. It was an inspiration of the master's. He had resolved to risk his bull to save human life. At the same moment the fat, round, rosy face of our landlord appeared through the skylight of the stable, crying to the crowd not to be alarmed, for that he would open the inner door which abuts into the old synagogue, and let out the crowd by the Jews' street, which was done in two or three minutes, to the immense relief and comfort of the public. But now listen to the end of my story. Scarcely had the bear caught sight of the bull when he made an ugly rush upon this new adversary with so terrible a shock that the chain burst. The bull retired, facing his foe, to a corner of the court near the pigeoncote, and there, head well down between his short legs and horns presented, he awaited the shock of war. The bear made several feints, slipping along by the wall from right to left; but the bull, with his forehead almost touching the ground, followed the enemy's movements with marvellous coolness. In five minutes the galleries had been cleared; the noise of the crowd taking refuge down the Jews' street was becoming more remote, and this manoeuvring of the two huge brutes seemed as if they were meditating a drawn battle, when suddenly the bull, losing patience, threw himself upon the bear with the whole momentum of his monstrous bulk. The unhappy brute, pressed so closely, took refuge under the woodshed, but the head and horns of his foe pursued him thither, and there no doubt he nailed his adversary to the wall, for although I could only see the bull's hindquarters, I could hear a dreadful shriek, followed by a crunching of bones, and presently a pool of blood was flowing over the pavement. I could only see the bull's hindquarters and his tail waving aloft like a battleflag. You would have thought he wanted to bring the walls down by the furious and violent pounding of his hindfeet. That silent scene in shadow was fearful. I did not wait to see the end. I came carefully down my ladder, and slipped out of the court like a thief. You may imagine with what pleasure I inhaled the pure open air; and passing through the crowd collected round the door where the bearleader was tearing his hair in his wild despair, I ran off to my aunt's house. I was just going round under the arcades when I was stopped by my old drawingmaster, Conrad Schmidt. "Caspar!" he cried, "where are you going in such a hurry?" "I am going to paint the great bearfight!" I answered enthusiastically. "Another tavern scene, I suppose," he remarked with a shrug. "Why not, Master Conrad? Is not a tavern scene as good as one in the forum?" I would have said a good deal, but we were standing at his door. "Good night, Matre Conrad," I cried, pressing his hand. "Don't bear a grudge against me for not going to study in Italy." "Grudge! No," replied the old master, smiling. "You know that privately I am of your opinion. If I tell you now and then to go to Italy, it is to satisfy Dame Catherine. But follow out your own idea, Caspar. Men who only follow other men's ideas never do any good." THE SCAPEGOAT. Note This story, allowing for the exercise of fancy in its construction, is only too faithful a picture of German student life and habits, with its ignorance or disregard of the Christianity taught us in the Gospel, its only halfconcealed leaning towards the ancient systems of religion properly known as heathen, and its careless indifference to human life. The translator has ventured to deviate slightly from the original in one or two places in order to avoid giving an unnecessary shock to the susceptibilities of readers trained and educated in principles widely differing from these.Transl. Doesn't everybody at Tubingen know the lamentable history of the quarrel between the Seigneur Kaspar Evig and the young Jew Elias Hirsch? Kaspar Evig was courting Mademoiselle Eva Salomon, the daughter of the old picturedealer in the Rue de Jericho. One day he found my friend Elias In the broker's shop, and, on what pretext I know not, he boxed his ears soundly three or four times. Elias Hirsch, who had begun his medical studies only about five months before, was called upon by a council of the students to challenge the Seigneur Kaspar to fight, a step which he took with the greatest repugnance, for it was quite to be expected that a seigneur should be a perfect swordsman. For all that Elias put himself well on the defensive, and, watching his opportunity, inserted his finelypointed sword so neatly between the ribs of the abovementioned seigneur as considerably to affect his breathing, the consequence of which was that he was dead in ten minutes. The Rector Diemer, being informed of this transaction by credible witnesses, listened coldly and remarked briefly "I understand you, gentlemen. He is dead, is he? Very well, then; bury him." Elias was carried about in triumph, like another Mattathias; but, far from accepting the proffered glory, he drooped under a profound melancholy. He lost flesh, he sighed, he groaned; his nose, already a pretty long one, seemed to gain in prominence what it lost in solidity, and often in the evening, as he was passing down the Rue des Trois Fontaines, he might be heard murmuring "Kaspar Evig, forgive me; I did not mean to take your life. Oh, unhappy Eva! what have you done? By your thoughtless flirting you made two brave men quarrel, and now the shade of the Seigneur Kaspar pursues me everywhere, even in my sleep. Oh, Eva! wretched Eva! why did you behave so?" So poor Elias moaned in his misery; and he was the more to be pitied because the sons of Israel are not bloodthirsty, and they know it is written in their law, "Whosoever sheddeth man's blood by man shall his blood be shed." Now one fine day in July, while I was drinking at the Faucon, in walks Elias Hirsch, just as miserable as ever, with hollow cheeks, hair hanging in disorder about his face, and downcast eyes. He laid his hand upon my shoulder, and said "Dear Christian, will you do me a pleasure?" "Of course I will, Elias; only say what." "Let us go for a walk together in the country; I want to consult you about my grief. You know many things human and divine; perhaps you can point me out a remedy for so much trouble of mind. I can trust in you, Christian, entirely." As I had already had five or six pints of beer and two or three glasses of schnapps, there was nothing more to detain me, and I consented to go with him. Besides, I felt flattered with his confidence in my wisdom. So we came through the town, and in twenty minutes we were walking along the little violetbordered path which winds up to the ancient ruins of Triefels.


Then, feeling alone, passing between hedges balmy with honeysuckle and musical with the song of birds, and slowly climbing up to the lofty pines which crown the Rothalp, Elias breathed more freely; he raised his eyes and cried "In all your theological studies, Christian, have you met with a way in which great crimes may be expiated? I know that you have studied this question a good deal. Tell me. Whatever you recommend to put to flight the avenging shade of Kaspar Evig, I will do it." Hirsch's question made me thoughtful. We walked together, with heads bowed down in thought, in deep silence. He watched me, I could see, out of the corner of his eye, whilst I was endeavouring to collect my thoughts upon this delicate question, but at last I made answer "Now, if we were inhabitants of India, Elias, I should tell you to go and bathe in the Ganges, for the waters of that river wash away the pollutions of both body and soulso, at least, the people of that country think; and they kill, and burn, and steal without fear under the protection of that marvellous river. It is a great comfort for scoundrels! It is a matter of great regret that we have no such river! If we were living in the days of Jason, I should prescribe to you the saltcakes of Queen Circe, which had the remarkable property of whitening blackened consciences and saving people the trouble of repenting. Finally, if you had the happiness to belong to our holy religion, I would order you to have masses said, and to give up your goods to the Church. But in your state as to locality, time, and belief, I know of only one way to relieve you." "What is it?" cried Hirsch, already kindling with hope. We had now reached the Rothalp, and were standing in a lonely place called the Holderloch. It is a deep dark gorge, encircled with gloomy firs; a level rock crowns the abyss, whence fall the dark waters of the Marg with roaring deep and loud. Our path had brought us there. I sat down upon the mossy turf to breathe the moist air which rises from the gulf, and at that very moment I espied below me a magnificent goat, reaching up to crop the wild cresses that grow on the edge of the cliff. Let it be remembered that the rocks of the Holderloch rise in the form of successive terraces, each terrace ten feet high perhaps, but not more than a foot wide, and upon these little narrow ledges grow a thousand sweetsmelling plantsthyme and honeysuckle, ivy and convolvulus, and the wild vine, perpetually bedewed with the spray from the falling torrent, and falling over in the loveliest clusters of bloom and foliage. Now my goatan animal with a broad brow, garnished with heavy knotted curling horns, with eyes gleaming like a pair of gold buttons, a reddish beard, exhibiting a proud, defiant bearing under those festoons of verdure, and a countenance as bold as that of a prowling satyrmy goat was making a progress upwards towards the very highest of these narrow ledges, and was enjoying a sweet repast of dainty herbs. "Elias!" I cried, "I feel an inspiration! Just as I was thinking of a scapegoat, there is one! I see it! Look!behold! There he is! Is not your course plain now? Lay your crime upon that goat, and then forget all about it." Elias looked at me in stupid ignorance. "I should like to do that, Christian, but how am I to lay my remorse upon that goat?" "Nothing can be plainer. What did the Romans do to get rid of their criminals, polluted with every crime? Why they flung them off the Tarpeian rock, to be sure. Well, having laid your imprecations upon that goat, fling him down the Holderloch, and there will be an end of it all." "But"replied Elias. "I know your objections beforehand," I replied. "You are going to say that you see no connection between Kaspar Evig, whose shade follows you, and that goat. But beware! be careful! Where was the connection between the waters of the Ganges, Circe's saltcakes, and the scapegoat with the crimes to be expiated? None at all. Well, for all that, the expiation was held to be good; therefore lay your curses and imprecations upon that goat, and throw him over! I order you to do that! I feel it my duty to see this thing done. I can see a connection between that goat and your fault, but I cannot explain it because the light of my vast information dazzles me just now!" Elias did not move a step. I even thought I detected a smile upon his countenance, which irritated me. "How!" said I; "here am I pointing out to you an infallible method to get rid of the just punishment of your crime, and you doubtyou hesitateyou even smile!" "No," said he, "but I am not accustomed to walk on the edges of precipices, and I am afraid I should fall into the Holderloch along with the goat." "Ah, you are a coward! I can see it all. You have just once displayed a little courage to get exemption for the rest of your days. Well, sir, if you refuse to carry out my advice, I will do it myself." And I rose. "Christian! Christian!" cried my friend, "don't trust yourself too far. Your foot is not steadyjust now." "My foot not steady! Do you dare to insinuate that I am drunk because I have just had ten or a dozen glasses of beer and three glasses of schnapps this morning? Away with you! Back! back, son of Belial!" And advancing a few feet above the goat, with my head raised and hands extended, I cried solemnly "Azazel! goat destined for misery and expiation, I lay upon your hairy back the remorse of my friend Elias Hirsch, and I send you down to the spirits of darkness!" Then, passing round the ledge on which we stood, I descended to the next below to catch the goat and throw him over. A sacred rage and fury seemed to possess me. I took no notice of the abyss. I stepped along the edge of the precipice like a cat. The goat, perceiving my approach, eyed me suspiciously, and stepped back a little way. "Ha!" I cried, "you may flee from me, but you shall not escape from me, accursed beast! I have got you!" "Oh, Christian, Christian!" Elias kept repeating in a heartrending voice, "do come back. You are risking your life!" "Silence, unbeliever!" I cried. "You are unworthy of the great sacrifice which I am making for your happiness! But your friend Christian never draws back. Azazel must perish!" A little farther on the ledge narrowed and ended in a point. The goat, having a second time examined me with a curious eye, drew back a little farther, but not without some hesitation. "Aha!" I exclaimed, "you are beginning to understand what is going to happen. Yes, let me get you into that corner, and your doom is sealed!" And undoubtedly, when he had got to the spot where the ledge came to an end, Azazel seemed puzzled to know what to do next. I edged up to him closer and closer, full of a noble excitement, and laughing in anticipation at the coming descent and the splash in the torrent below. I now beheld him at four paces from me, and I was grasping tightly a root of holly that was growing out of a rock to launch out a kick at the devoted beast. "Look, Elias, see the accursed!" I cried. When, all in a moment, I felt in my stomach a most awful blow, a butt which would have sent me into the Holderloch had I not kept hold of that blessed root of holly. The fact was that that miserable goat, seeing himself driven into a corner, had himself commenced the attack. Oh, what was my astonishment! Before I knew where I was or what had happened, there was the brute standing up again on his hindlegs, and his horns digging into my stomach and my sides with a hollow sound. What a position to be in! It is impossible to be more astounded than I was at that moment! It was the world upside down. It was a bad dreama nightmare! The precipice with all its jagged peaks seemed to dance around me, and so did the trees and sky above. At the same moment I heard piercing cries from Elias of "Help! help!" while Azazel's horns were ploughing up my sides. Then I lost all presence of mind. The goat with his long beard and his hard, sharp horns pounding me, now in my chest, now in my stomach, and then in my shaking limbs, produced a most diabolical effect upon me. My hold on the root slowly relaxed, and I let go. But happily something kept me from falling, something which I could not understand at first. But it was the shepherd Yeri, of the Holderloch, who from the next platform above had caught me by the coatcollar with his crook. Thanks to his assistance, instead of falling down into the chasm I lay full length along the ledge, and that awful goat walked over my body to get away about his business. "Come, take firm hold of my crook," cried the shepherd to Elias; "now I will go down for him. Don't let go!" "You may rely upon me," answered Elias. I heard all that as if it were a nightmare. I had almost lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes I saw standing before me that gigantic shepherd, with his grey eyes sunk underneath his bushy eyebrows, his yellow beard, a sheepskin thrown over his shoulders, and I thought I had awoke in the age of Oedipus, which made me wonder a good deal. "Well," cried the shepherd, in a harsh guttural, "this will teach you not to curse my goat any more!" Then I saw Azazel rubbing himself comfortably against his master's colossal legs, and looking slily, and I thought ironically, at me; and then I saw Elias standing behind me, and making the greatest efforts not to laugh. My scattered senses were beginning to return. I sat myself down with pain and difficulty, for Azazel had bruised me all over, and I felt fearfully stiff and sore. "Was it you who saved me?" I asked the shepherd. "Yes, my boy, it was." "Well, you are a good fellow, and I am much obliged to you. I withdraw the curse I laid upon your goat. Here, take this." I handed him my purse with sixteen florins in it. "Thank you, sir," said he, "and now you can begin again if you like on even ground. Down there it was not fair; the goat had all the advantage." "Thank you very much! But I have had quite enough. Shake hands, old fellow; I'll never forget you. Let us go now." My comrade and I, arminarm, then descended the hill. The shepherd, leaning on his crook, watched us till we disappeared. The goat had resumed his walk and his supper on the very edge of the crags. The sky was lovely, the air balmy with a thousand sweet mountain perfumes carried on it with the distant sounds of the shepherd's horn and the booming of the torrent. We returned to Tubingen with our hearts full. Since that time my friend Elias has found some comfort for slaying the Seigneur Kaspar, but in an original fashion. Scarcely had he taken his doctor's degree when he married Mademoiselle Eva Salomon, with the hope of having a numerous family to make up for the loss of that individual who had met with an untimely end at his hand. Four years ago I was at his wedding as best man, and already there are two fat babies making the pretty little house in Crispin street to rejoice. This was a promising commencement! Don't let me be misunderstood. I don't pretend to say that the method I prescribed for making expiation for taking away a life is better than that taught in our holy religion, which, according to the Catholic Church, consists in masses and in giving away your goods to the Church. But I do think it better than the Hindoo practice, and I think the theory of the famous scapegoat is not to be compared with that which is taught us by pure religion. A NIGHT IN THE WOODS. CHAPTER I. My worthy uncle, Bernard Hertzog, the historian and antiquary, surmounted with his grand threecornered hat and wig, and with a long ironshod mountainpole firmly grasped in his hand, was coming down one evening by the Luppersberg, hailing every turn in the landscape with enthusiastic exclamations. Years had never quenched in him the love of knowledge. At sixty he was still at work upon his History of Alsacian Antiquities, and never allowed himself to write a complete account of a ruined and defaced monument, or any relic of former days, until he had examined it a hundred times from every point of view. "No man," said he, "who has had the happy privilege of being born in the Vosges, between Haut Bar, Nideck, and Geierstein has any business to think of travelling. Where are there nobler forests, older fir and beech trees, more lovely smiling valleys, wilder rocks? Where is the country with richer possessions in memorable story? Here, in olden times, used the high and powerful lords of Lutzelstein, Dagsberg, Leiningen, and Fntrange, to fight clad in mail from head to foot. Here the eldest son of the Church and the rulers of the Holy Roman Empire exchanged blows in the Middle Ages with swords two yards long. What are our wars compared with those terrible battles where warriors fought hand to hand, where they hammered upon each other's skulls with huge battleaxes, and drove the dagger between the bars of the closed visor? Were not those heroic feats of arms? was not that a courage worthy to be chronicled to all posterity? But our young people want to see new things; they are not satisfied with their own native land they must wander through Germany, make tours in France. Worse still, they abandon science and its noble fields for trade, arts, industry, as if there had not been in the former glorious days much more curious industrial arts and pursuits than in our own day! Witness the Hanseatic League, the maritime enterprise of Venice, Genoa, and the Levant, Flemish manufactures, Florentine art, the triumphs in art of Rome and Antwerp! No! all that is laid aside; people nowadays pride themselves upon their ignorance of those glorious days; above all, they neglect our dear old Alsace. Now, candidly, Theodore, don't all those tourists remind you of husbands leaving their fair sweet lawful wives to run after ugly coquettes?" And Bernard Hertzog shook his learned head, his eyes rounded with wonder and excitement, just as if he had been standing before the ruins of Babylon. His partiality to the usages and customs of old times accounted for his having, for forty years past, worn the fullskirted plush coat, the velvet breeches, the black silk stockings, and the silver shoebuckles of our grandfathers. He would have thought himself disgraced had he put on trousers; and to cut off his pigtail would have been a profane deed. So the worthy chronicler was going to Haslach on the 3rd of July, 1835, to examine with his own eyes a little bronze Mercury recently unearthed in the old cloister of the Augustins. He trotted on with a tolerably elastic stop under a burning sun. Mountains succeeded mountains, valleys sank into other valleys, the footpath went up, then went down again, turned, now to the right, now to the left, until Matre Hertzog began to wonder how it was that he had not caught sight of the village spire an hour ago. The fact was that after leaving Saverne he had inclined to the right, and was now penetrating into the Dagsberg woods with juvenile energy. At the rate he was going, in five or six hours he would have reached Phramond, eight leagues from his destination. But night was coming on apace, and the path was now becoming fainter, and under the tall trees only an indistinct track appeared. The approach of night among the mountains is a melancholy sight; the shadows lengthen in the valleys, the sun withdraws, one by one, his rays from the darkening foliage, the silence deepens every minute. You look behind you; the groups and clumps of trees assume colossal proportions; a blackbird at the summit of a tree bids farewell to the parting day, then silence covers all like a funeral pall. You can only hear now the last year's dead leaves crisping under foot, and far, far, away a waterfall filling the valley with its monotonous hum. Bernard Hertzog began to pant a little; his clothes adhered to his skin with the running perspiration. His legs were beginning to give hints of surrendering. "Confound that foolish Mercury!" he cried. "At this moment I ought to have been quiet at home in my own armchair, and Berbel, according to her praiseworthy custom, ought to be bringing me up upon a tray a cup of smoking hot coffee, while I am winding up my chapter upon the ancient armoury at Nideck. Instead of which, here I am floundering in holes, stumbling everywhere, and suppose I lost my way altogether and then broke my neck! There!I said so! Was that a tree I knocked against? A hundred thousand bans and maledictions fall upon Mercury and Haas, the architect, who sent for me to look at it! and the scoundrels, too, who dug it up! I'll lay any wager that the boasted Mercury is nothing but some defaced and corroded bit of stone, without either nose or legssome shapeless deformity like that little Hesus last year at Marienthal. Oh, you architects! you architects!you are always finding antiquities everywhere. Luckily I had not my spectacles on, or I should have smashed them against that tree; but now I shall be obliged to find a bed somewhere among the bushes. What a road this is!nothing but ruts, and holes, and pits, and loose rocks and boulders!" In one of those moments when the good man, getting exhausted, was stopping for breath, he thought he could hear the grating of a saw far down the valley. What was his joy when he became certain that it was that! "Heaven be praised!" he cried, plucking up his spirits; "now to push on with halting steps. Now I shall get a little rest. What a lesson this will be for me! Providence had compassion upon my rheumatism. What an old fool to go and expose myself to have to lie out in the woods at my time of life, to ruin my health and undermine my constitution! I shall remember this! Never shall I forget this warning!" In a quarter of an hour the noise of falling water became more distinct; then a faint light broke through the trees. Matre Bernard then found himself at the top of the wood; he observed below the heath a stream running down the winding valley as far as he could see, and just before him the sawmill, with its long dark posts and beams crossing and recrossing in the gloom like a huge spider. He crossed the higharched bridge over the rushing dam, and looked through the little window into the woodman's hut. It was a low, dark shed leaning against a hollow in the rock. At the farther end of the natural cavity was a small pile of smouldering sawdust. In the front the boarded roof, weighted with heavy stones, descended to within three feet of the ground; in a corner at the right, a kind of box, full of dried heather; a few logs of oak, an axe, a massive bench, and other implements of toil, were lost in the shade. A resinous odour of pinewood impregnated the air, and the ruddy smoke eddied through a fissure in the rock. Whilst the good man was observing these objects, the woodman, coming out from the mill, saw him, and cried "Halloo!who is that?" "I beg your pardon; pray pardon me," said my worthy uncle, rather startled. "I am a traveller who has lost his way." "Hey!" cried the other man; "good guide us! Is not that Matre Bernard, of Saverne? You are very welcome indeed, Matre Bernard. Don't you know me?" "No, indeed! How should I in this dark night?" "Parbleu!of course not! But I am Christian; I bring you your contraband snuff every fortnight. But come in, come in! We will soon get a light." They passed stooping under the little low door, and the woodman, having lighted a pinetorch, stuck it into a split iron rod to serve as a candlestick, and a bright light, clear and white as moonshine, filled the hut, lighting up every corner of it. Christian, standing in shirtsleeves, his broad chest uncovered, and with a pair of canvas trousers hitched up about his hips, looked a goodnatured fellow enough; his tawny beard came down in a point to his waist; his huge bull head was covered with bristling brown hair; his small grey eyes inspired confidence. "Take a seat, master," he said, rolling a log of wood before the fire. "Are you hungry?" "Why, you know, my lad, your mountain air does excite one's appetite." "Very well; you are just in time. I have got some very good potatoes quite at your service." At the mention of potatoes Uncle Bernard could not help grimacing; he remembered, with the longing of affection, old Berbel's good suppers, and had a difficulty in coming down to the humble realities before him. Christian seemed to take no notice; he took five or six potatoes out of a sack, and put them into the embers, taking care to cover them entirely; then, sitting down on the hearthstone, he lighted his pipe. "But just tell me, master, how is it that you are here tonight, at six leagues' distance from Saverne, in the gorge of Nideck?" "The gorge of Nideck!" cried my uncle Bernard, springing from his seat in great surprise. "To be sure! You may see the ruins from here, about two gunshots distant." Master Bernard looked out, and really did recognise the ruins of Nideck, just as he had described them in the twentyfourth chapter of his History of Alsacian Antiquities, with their high towers crumbling away at the foot, and dominating over the abyss into which the torrent falls. "But I thought I was near Haslach!" he cried with amazement. The woodcutter burst out laughing. "Haslach!you are two leagues away from it! I see how it is. You went wrong at the old oaktree. You took the right instead of the left path. When you are in the woods you must look well about you. A few yards wrong at starting come to leagues at the end!" Bernard Hertzog at this discovery was in consternation. "Six leagues from Saverne," he murmured, "and all mountains!and if I have to go two more tomorrow, that will be eight!" "Oh, don't mind that! I will guide you to the road down the valley. And don't forget. You are very fortunate." "Fortunate? You are joking with me, Christian." "Yes, you are lucky. You might have had to spend the night in the woods. There is a thunderstorm coming on from Schneberg; if that had overtaken you you might have had some reason to complain, with the rain at your back and thunder and lightning all round. But now you shall sleep in a good bed," pointing to the box in the corner; "you will sleep there like a log, and tomorrow, when the sun is up, we will start; you will be rested, and you will get there in very good time." "You are very kind, Christian," said Uncle Bernard with tears in his eyes. "Give me a potato, and then I will go to bed. I am more tired than anything else. I am not hungry. One hot potato will be quite enough for me." "Here is a couple as mealy as chestnuts. Taste that, master; take a small glass of kirschwasser, and then lie down. I have to set to work again. I have got to saw fifteen more planks before I can go to bed." Christian rose, set the bottle of kirschwasser on the windowsill, and went out. The alternate movement of the saw, which had for a time ceased, now recommenced amidst the rushing of the stream. Matre Hertzog, astonished as he was to find himself in those remote solitudes between Dagsberg and the ruins of Nideck, sat long meditating what he must do to rejoin his household gods; then, gliding down the stream of his usual meditations, he went over the fabulous, heroic, or barbarous legends and chronicles of the former lords of that land. He went back to the Tribocci, that German nation settled about Strasbourg, remembering Clovis, Chilperic, Theodoric, Dagobert, the furious struggle between Brunehaut, Queen of Austrasia, and Frdgonde, queen of Chilperic of France, and many heroes and heroines besides. All these fierce personages passed in review before his eyes. The vague murmuring of the trees, the inky blackness of the rocks, favoured this strange invocation. All the distinguished personages of his chronicle were there, and the boar, and the wolf, and the bear were among them. At last, unable to hold out any longer, the good man hung his threecornered hat upon a peg in the wall and lay down upon the heath. The cricket sang its monotonous song upon the hearth, a few surviving sparks were running hither and thither in the smouldering fire, his eyelids dropped, and he slept a deep, sound sleep. CHAPTER II. Matre Bernard Hertzog had slept a couple of hours, and the boiling of the water in the millrace alone competed with the noise of his loud snoring, when suddenly a guttural voice, arising in the midst of the deep silence, cried "Drckteufel! Drckteufel! have you forgotten everything?" The voice was so piercing that Matre Bernard, waking with a sudden start, felt his hair creeping with horror. He raised himself upon his elbow and listened again with eyes starting with astonishment. The hut was as dark as a cellar; he listened, but not a breath, not a sound, came; only far away, far beyond the ruins, a dull, distant roar was heard among the mountains. Bernard, with neck outstretched, heaved a deep sigh; in a minute he began to stammer out "Who is there? What do you want?" But no answer came. "It was a dream," he said, falling back upon his heather couch. "I must have been lying upon my back. There is nothing at all in dreams and nightmaresnothing! nothing!" But in the midst of the restored silence the same doleful cry was again repeated "Drckteufel! Drckteufel!" And as Matre Bernard, fairly beside himself, was preparing for instant flight, but with his face to the wall, and unable to move from his couch, the voice, in a dissonant chant, with pauses and strange accents, went on "The Queen Faileube, espoused to our king, ChilpericQueen Faileube, learning that Septimanie, the governess of the young princes, had conspired against the king's lifeQueen Faileube said to the lord, 'My lord, the viper waits until you are asleep to give you a mortal wound. She has conspired with Sinngisile and Gallomagus against your life! She has poisoned her husband, your faithful Jovius, to live with Drckteufel. Let your anger come down upon her like lightning, and your vengeance with a bloody sword!' And Chilperic, assembling all his council in the castle of Nideck, said, 'We have cherished a viper; she has plotted our death. Let her be cut into three pieces. Let Drckteufel, Sinngisile, and Gallomagus perish with her! Let the ravens rejoice!' And the vassals cried, 'So let it be! The wrath of Chilperic is an abyss into which his enemies fall and perish!' Then Septimanie was brought to be put to the torture and examined; a ring of iron was bound around her temples; it was tightened; her eyes started; her blooddropping mouth murmured, 'Lord king, I have offended. Drckteufel, Gallomagus, and Sinngisile have also conspired!' And the following night a festoon of corpses dangled and swung from the towers of Nideck! The foul birds of prey rejoiced over the rich spoil. Drckteufel, what would I not have done for thee? I would have had thee King of Austrasia, and thou hast forgotten me!" The guttural voice sank down, and my uncle Bernard, more dead than alive, breathing a sigh of terror, murmured "Oh, I have never done anybody any wrong! I am only a poor old chronicler! Let me not die without absolution, far from the succour of the Church!" The great wooden box full of heather seemed at every effort to escape to sink deeper and deeper. The poor man thought he was going down into a gulf, when, happily, Christian reappeared, crying "Well, Matre Bernard, what did I say? here is the storm." And now the hut was for an instant full of dazzling light, and my worthy uncle, who was lying facing the door, could see the whole valley lighted up, with its innumerable firtrees crowded along the slopes down the valley as close as the grass of the fields, its rocks piled up on the banks of the river, which was rolling its sulphurous blue waves over the rounded boulders of the ravine, and the towers of Nideck rising proudly in the air fifteen hundred feet above. Then the darkness covered all up again. That was the first flash. But in that instant of time he caught sight of a strange figure crouching at the end of the hut without being able to make out what it really was. Great drops were beginning to patter on the roof. Christian lighted a rush, and seeing Matre Bernard with his hands convulsively clutching the edge of his box of heather, and his face covered with beads of cold sweat, he cried "Why! Master Bernard! what is the matter with you?" But, without answering, he merely pointed to the figure huddled up in the corner; it was an old woman, so very advanced in extreme old age, so yellow and wrinkled, with such a hooked nose, fingers so skinny, and lips so lean, that she looked like an old owl with all its feathers gone. There were only a few hairs left on the back of her head; the rest of her skull was as bare of covering as an egg. A threadbare ragged linen gown covered her poor skeleton figure. She was sightless, and the expression of her face was one of constant reverie. Christian, noticing my uncle's inquiring look, turned his head and said quietly "It's old Irmengarde, the old teller of legends. She is waiting to die till the old tower falls into the torrent." Uncle Bernard, stupefied, looked at the woodman; he did not seem inclined to joke; on the contrary, he looked serious. "Come, Christian," said the good man, "you mean to have your joke." "Joke! no indeed, old and feeble as you see her, that old woman knows everything; the spirit of the ruins is in her. She was living when the old lords of the castle lived." Now my old uncle was very nearly falling backwards at this astounding disclosure. "But what do you mean?" he cried; "the castle of Nideck has been down these thousand years!" "What if it was two thousand years?" said the woodman, making the sign of the cross as a new flash lighted up the valley; "what does that prove? The spirit of the ruins lives in her. A hundred and eight years Irmengarde has lived with this spirit in her. Before her it was in old Edith of Haslach; before Edith in some other" "Do you believe that?" "Do I believe it! It is as sure, Master Bernard, as that the sun will be back in three hours' time. Death is night, life is day. After night comes day, then night again, and so on without end. The sun is the soul of the sky, the great spirit that is in us all, and the souls of the saints are like the stars which shine in the night, and which will never cease to return." Bernard Hertzog replied not another word, but having risen, he began suspiciously to consider the aspect of that aged woman, who sat still in a niche carved out of the rock. He noticed above the niche some rough carving on the stone representing three trees with their branches touching, and forming a sort of crown; lower down were three toads cut in the granite. Three trees are the arms of the Tribocci (dreien bchen), three toads are the arms of the Merovingian kings. What was the surprise of the old chronicler! Covetousness now took the place of alarm. "Here," thought he, "is the oldest monument of the Frankish race in Gaul. That old woman reminds me of some fallen queen, left here a relic of ages long gone by. But how am I to carry the niche away?" He began to consider. Then was heard far away in the woods the trampling of the hoofs of many cattle and deep bellowing. The rain fell faster; the flashes of lightning, like flights of frightened birds in the dark, touched each other by the tips of their wings; one never waited for another to be gone, and the rolling of the thunder became incessant and terrible. Soon the storm reached the very gorge of Nideck and hung over it closely, and swooped down with implacable fury; the explosions succeeded each other without intermission. It seemed as if the very mountains were falling. At every fresh crash Uncle Bernard shrank, feeling as if the lightning were coming down his back. "The first Triboceus who built a hut to cover his head was no fool," thought he. "He was a sensible man, with some experience of atmospheric changes. What would have become of us in this emergency had we not a roof over our heads? We should be greatly to be pitied.