But the discovery that the evil one was taking advantage of his avarice

by seeking to ensnare him with gold, did not open the eyes of the

blinded fisherman, but on the contrary he determined to make use of the

information the little man had given him, without putting himself in

the power of the evil one. So while he continued to fish for gold on

the desolate coast, he neglected the prosperity offered by large

schools of fish off other parts of the coast as well as all other

expedients to which he had once turned his attention, and sank with his

companion into deeper poverty from day to day, until the common

necessaries of life began to fail them. But although this ruin might be

wholly ascribed to Falcon's obstinacy and cupidity, and the maintenance

of both had fallen on Kaspar Strumpf alone, yet the latter never once

reproached his companion, but on the other hand continued to display

the same subjection to him, and the same confidence in his superior

understanding, as at the time when everyone of his undertakings was

successful. This circumstance increased Falcon's sorrows not a little,

but drove him into a still keener search for gold, hoping thereby soon

to be able to indemnify his companion for so great forbearance. The

word _Carmilhan_ still haunted him in his sleep. In short, need,

disappointed hopes, and avarice, drove him finally into a species of

insanity, so that he really resolved to do that which the little man

had advised--although knowing that, as the legend ran, he thereby gave

himself up to the powers of darkness.

Kaspar's objections were all in vain. Falcon became the more

determined, the more Kaspar besought him to give up his desperate

purpose; and finally the good, weak-minded fellow consented to

accompany him and assist him in carrying out his plan. The hearts of

both men were saddened, as they tied a rope to the horns of a beautiful

cow that they had owned since she was a calf, and that was now their

last piece of property; they had often refused to sell her before,

because they could not bear the thought of letting her go into strange

hands. But the evil spirit that now controlled Falcon's actions

triumphed over his better nature; nor did Kaspar know how to restrain

him in anything.

It was now September, and the long nights of the Scottish Winter had

already begun. The night clouds were driven along before the raw night

wind, and were banked up in masses like icebergs. Deep shadows filled

the ravines between the mountains and the peat-bogs, and the troubled

channels of the streams appeared black and fearful. Falcon led the way

and Strumpf followed, shuddering at his own boldness. Tears filled

Kaspar's eyes as often as he looked at the poor creature that was going

so unconsciously and trustfully to its death, to be dealt it by the

hand that had always fed and caressed it.

With much difficulty they entered a narrow marshy valley, which was

here and there strewn with rocks, with patches of moss and heathers,

and was shut in by a chain of wild mountains whose outlines were lost

in a gray mist, and whose steep sides had seldom been ascended by a

human foot. They approached a large rock in the centre of the valley

over the shaking bog, from which a frightened eagle flew screaming into

the sky. The poor cow lowed, as if aware of the terrors of the place

and the fate that awaited her. Kaspar turned aside to wipe away

the fast falling tears. He looked down to the rocky opening through

which they had come, from which point could be heard the breakers on

the distant coast, and then up to the mountain peaks, upon which a

coal-black cloud had settled, from which might be heard from time to

time dull mutterings of thunder. As he looked toward Falcon he found

that his friend had made the cow fast to the rock, and now stood with

uplifted ax in the very act of dealing her death blow.

This was too much for Kaspar. Wringing his hands, he fell upon his

knees. "For God's sake, William Falcon!" shouted he in despairing

tones, "save yourself! Spare the cow! Save yourself and me! Save your

soul! Save your life! And if you will persist in tempting God, wait at

least until to-morrow and sacrifice some other animal than our own

cow!"

"Kaspar, are you crazy?" shrieked Falcon, like a madman, while he still

held the ax swinging in the air. "Shall I spare the cow and starve?"

"You shall not starve," answered Kaspar, resolutely. "As long as I have

hands you shall not suffer hunger. I will work for you day and night,

so that you do not endanger the peace of your soul, and let the poor

creature live for my sake!"

"Then take the ax and split my head!" shouted Falcon, in desperation.

"I won't move from this spot until I have what I desire. Can you raise

the treasures of the _Carmilhan_ for me? Can your hands earn more than

the merest necessaries of life? But you can put an end to my misery.

Come, and let me be the victim!"

"William, kill the cow, kill me! It does not matter to me, I was only

anxious about the salvation of your soul. Alas! this was the altar of

the Picts, and the sacrifice that you would bring belongs to the

darkness."

"I don't know anything about that," cried Falcon, laughing wildly, like

one who is resolved not to listen to anything that might swerve him

from his purpose. "Kaspar, you are crazy and make me crazy, too. But

there," continued he, throwing away the ax and picking up his knife

from the stone as if about to stab himself; "there, I will kill myself

instead of the cow!"

Kaspar was at his side in a twinkling, tore the murderous weapon from

his hand, seized the ax, poised it high in the air, and brought it down

with such a force on the poor cow's head, that she fell dead at her

master's feet.

A flash of lightning, accompanied by a peal of thunder, followed this

rash act, and Falcon stared at his friend in astonishment. But Strumpf

was disturbed neither by the thunder-clap nor by the fixed stare of his

companion; and without speaking a word, fell to work at removing the

hide. When Falcon had recovered from his amazement, he assisted his

companion at this task, but with as evident aversion as he had before

manifested eagerness to see the sacrifice completed. During their work

the thunder-storm had gathered, the thunder reverberated among the

mountains, and fearful flashes played about the rock; while the wind

roared through the lower valleys and along the coast. And when at last

the two fishermen had stripped the hide off, they found that they were

wet through to the skin. They spread the hide out on the ground, and

Kaspar wrapped and tied Falcon up in it. Then, for the first time, when

all this was done, poor Kaspar broke the long silence by saying in a

trembling voice, as he looked down at his deluded friend: "Can I do

anything more for you, William?"

"Nothing more," replied the other; "farewell!"

"Farewell," responded Kaspar. "God be with you, and pardon you, as I

do."

These were the last words Falcon heard from him, for Kaspar disappeared

in the darkness; and immediately thereafter the most terrible

thunder-storm occurred that William had ever experienced. It began with

a flash, that revealed to Falcon's sight not only the mountains and

rocks in his immediate vicinity, but also the valley below, with the

foaming sea and the rocky islets in the bay, between which he thought

he had a vision of a large foreign ship, dismasted; though the sight

was instantly lost again in the inky darkness. The thunder-claps were

deafening. A mass of splintered rock rolled down the mountain-side and

threatened to crush him. The rain poured down in such torrents that the

narrow, marshy valley was flooded with a stream that soon reached to

Falcon's shoulders; fortunately Kaspar had laid him with the upper part

of his body on a slight elevation, else he would surely have drowned.

The water rose still higher, and the more Falcon exerted himself to get

out of his dangerous situation, the tighter did the hide seem to wrap

itself about his limbs. All in vain did he call for Kaspar. Kaspar was

far away. He did not dare to call on God in his distress, and a shudder

ran through his frame whenever he thought of appealing for assistance

to the powers into whose clutches he was conscious of having delivered

himself.

Already the water crept into his ears; now it touched the edge of his

lips. "Oh, God! I am lost!" screamed he, as he felt the water sweep

over his face; but in the same instant the sound of a waterfall close

by came dimly to his ears, and his face was immediately uncovered. The

flood had forced a passage through the stone; and as the rain slackened

and the sky grew lighter, so did his despair abate, and a ray of hope

returned to his mind. But although he felt as exhausted as if just

emerged from a death-struggle, and ardently wished to be released from

his imprisonment, still the purpose of his desperate efforts was not

yet accomplished, and with the vanishing of immediate deadly peril, the

demon of greed returned to his breast. But, convinced that he must

remain in his present situation in order to attain his end, he kept

very quiet, and finally, overcome by cold and exhaustion, fell into a

sound sleep.

He might have slept two hours, when a cold wind blowing over his face,

and a roaring, as of oncoming waves, aroused him from his happy state

of oblivion. The sky was darkened anew. A flash, like that which had

ushered in the first storm, lighted up once more the surrounding

region, and he fancied he had another vision of the strange ship, that

was now poised for an instant on the crest of an enormous wave close to

the Steenfoll cliffs, and then appeared to shoot suddenly into the

rocky chasm. He continued to stare after the phantom, as the sea was

now illuminated by unceasing flashes of lightning, when suddenly a

water-spout rose from the valley, near where he lay, and dashed him so

violently against a rock as to deprive him of his senses. When he

recovered consciousness, the weather had cleared, the sky was bright,

but the lightning still continued.

He lay close at the base of the mountains that shut in this valley,

feeling so badly bruised that he had no desire to stir. He heard the

quieter beating of the surf, mingled with a solemn melody like that of

a psalm. These tones were at first so faint that he thought they must

be an illusion; but they occurred again and again, each time clearer

and nearer, and at last he thought he could distinguish the melody of a

psalm which he had heard on board a Dutch fishing-smack the Summer

before. Finally he could also make out voices, and he seemed to be able

to distinguish the words of the song. The voices were now in the

valley, and he pushed himself, with difficulty, to a stone, upon which

he raised his head, and perceived a procession of human figures,

evidently the singers he had heard, and who were coming directly

towards him. Care and grief were expressed on the faces of these

people; and water was dripping from their clothes. Now they were close

to him, and their song ceased. At their head were several musicians;

then followed some seamen, and after these came a tall and strong man

in a costume richly decorated with gold, apparently belonging to a past

age. A sword hung at his side, and he carried in his hand a stout

Spanish cane with a gold head. At his left side walked a negro boy,

who, from time to time, handed his master a long-stemmed pipe, from

which the latter would take several grave puffs and then walk on. He

stopped bolt upright before Falcon, while other men, less splendidly

dressed, ranged themselves on either side of him. They all had pipes in

their hands, not, however, as costly as that of their leader. Behind

them came still other persons, among them being several women, some of

whom had children in their arms or at their apron-strings, and all in

costly foreign costumes. A crowd of Dutch sailors brought up the rear

of the procession, each one having a quid of tobacco in his mouth, and

holding between his teeth a little cutty-pipe, which he smoked in

gloomy silence.

The fisherman shuddered as he looked at this singular assembly; but his

expectation that something would come of it all kept his courage up.

For some time the strange people stood around him thus, and the smoke

from their pipes floated over them like a cloud, through which peeped

the stars. The men closed in on Falcon in an ever-narrowing circle; the

smoking became more and more vehement, and the clouds that arose from

pipe and mouth increased in density.

Falcon was a bold, daring man; he had prepared himself beforehand for

extraordinary occurrences; but when he saw this innumerable crowd

pressing in on him as if to crush him by their numbers, his courage

failed him, great drops of sweat stood out on his forehead, and he

thought he would perish in a spasm of fright. But one may imagine his

horror when, as he chanced to turn his eyes, he saw, sitting motionless

and erect, close by his head, the little old man in the yellow linen

suit, looking just as he had the first time except that now, as if

making fun of the whole assembly, he, too, had a pipe in his mouth. In

the mortal fright that now took possession of him, Falcon cried out to

the leader of this assembly:

"In the name of whomsoever you serve, who are you? and what do you want

with me?"

The tall man drew three whiffs, even more gravely than before; then

gave the pipe to his servant and answered very coldly:

"I am Alfred Frank van Swelder, commander of the ship _Carmilhan_, of

Amsterdam, which, on the voyage home from Batavia, went to the bottom

with man and mouse on this rocky coast. These are my officers, those my

passengers, and beyond, my brave crew who were all drowned with me. Why

have you summoned us from our dwellings deep in the sea? Why do you

disturb our rest?"

"I wish to know where the treasure of the _Carmilhan_ lies."

"On the bottom of the sea."

"Where?"

"In the cave of Steenfoll."

"How can I recover it?"

"A goose dives into the abyss for a herring; is not the treasure of the

_Carmilhan_ of as much value?"

"How much of it shall I recover?"

"More than you will ever spend."

The little man in yellow grinned horribly at this reply, while all the

others laughed aloud.

"Are you through?" inquired the commander, further.

"I am. Farewell!"

"Farewell, until we meet again!" replied the Dutchman, and turned to

go; the musicians took the lead again, and the whole procession marched

away in the same order in which it had come, and with the same solemn

song, which grew ever fainter and fainter in the distance, until

finally it was lost in the roar of the breakers.

Falcon now exerted his utmost strength to get out of the hide, and he

at last succeeded in freeing one arm, with which he was able to loosen

the rope that was wound round him, and soon had stepped out of the

hide. Without stopping to look about him, he hastened down to his hut,

and found poor Kaspar Strumpf lying on the ground in an insensible

condition. With some difficulty he restored him to consciousness, and

the good fellow shed tears of joy on once more beholding the friend of

his youth, whom he had given up for lost. But this happy consolation

vanished quickly, when he learned what a desperate undertaking Falcon

now had in mind.

"I would rather cast myself into hell than to look any longer at these

bare walls and reflect on our misery. Follow me, or stay here; I am

going at any rate."

[Illustration]

With these words. Falcon seized a torch, a tinder-box, and a rope, and

hastened away. Kaspar ran after him as fast as he could, and found his

friend standing on the ledge of the rock upon which he had once sought

safety from the storm, and ready to let himself down into the raging

abyss. When Kaspar found that his entreaties had no effect on the

crazed man, he prepared to descend after him; but Falcon ordered him to

remain where he was and hold on to the rope. With an amount of exertion

that could only have been supplied by the blindest of passions, greed,

Falcon clambered down into the cave, and at last came to a projecting

piece of rock, just below which the black waves, crested with foam,

rushed along with a dreadful roar. He looked about him eagerly, and

finally saw something glistening in the water directly beneath where he

stood. He laid down his torch, plunged in, and seized a heavy object

which he managed to bring back with him. It was an iron box filled with

gold pieces. He shouted up to his companion what he had found; but he

would not pay the least attention to Kaspar's entreaties to content

himself with what he had. Falcon believed that this was only the first

fruit of his long endeavors. He plunged into the waves once more--a

peal of laughter arose from the sea, and William Falcon was never seen

again.

Kaspar went back to the hut, but as a changed man. The strange shocks

which his weak head and sensitive heart had experienced, wrecked his

mind. He wandered about, day and night, staring before him in an

imbecile way, pitied and yet avoided by all his former acquaintances.

One stormy night a fisherman claimed to have recognized William Falcon

on the shore among the crew of the _Carmilhan_, and on that same night

Kaspar Strumpf disappeared. He was sought for every-where, but no trace

of him was ever found; but the legend runs that he has often been seen,

together with Falcon, among the crew of the spectre ship, which since

his loss appears at stated times at the cave of Steenfoll.

"It is long past midnight," said the student, when the young goldsmith

had concluded his story; "there cannot well be any further danger, and

I, for my part, am so sleepy that I would advise that we all lay down

and go to sleep with a sense of perfect security."

"I should not feel safe before two o'clock in the morning," said the

huntsman; "the proverb says, from eleven till two is the thief's hour."

"I am of the same opinion," observed the compass-maker; "for if they

mean us any harm, there is certainly no time so well adapted to their

purpose as the small hours. Therefore, I think it would be well if the

student were to continue his story, which he did not finish."

"I will not refuse your request," responded the student, "although our

neighbor, the huntsman, did not hear the beginning of it."

"I will try to imagine it, only go on," replied the huntsman.

"Well then,"--the student had just begun, when they were interrupted by

the barking of a dog. All held their breaths and listened. At the same

instant one of the servants rushed in from the countess's room, and

announced that from ten to twelve armed men were approaching the inn.

The huntsman seized his rifle, the student his pistol, the journeymen

their canes, while the wagoner drew a large knife from his pocket. Thus

they stood staring at one another helplessly.

"Let us station ourselves at the head of the stairs!" cried the

student. "Two or three of these villains shall meet their death before

we are overpowered." So saying he gave the compass-maker his other

pistol, with the understanding that they should fire one after the

other. They took their places on the stairs--the student and the

huntsman first, and near them the courageous compass-maker, who kept

his pistol pointed down the centre of the stair-way. The goldsmith and

the wagoner stood behind them, ready to do their best if it should come

to a hand-to-hand fight.

They had stood thus but a few moments, when the house-door opened, and

they heard several voices whispering.

Now they heard the steps of many men nearing the stair-way. The steps

came up the stairs, and when about half way up three men were made out,

who were evidently not prepared for the reception that awaited them. As

they turned round the pillar that supported the flooring above, the

huntsman called out: "Halt! One step further, and you are dead men.

Cock your guns, friends, and take good aim!"

The robbers shrank back; returned hastily to their companions below,

and conferred with them. After a while one of them came back and said:

"Gentlemen, it would be folly in you to sacrifice your lives for

nothing; for there are enough of us to completely destroy you; but

return to your rooms and not one of you shall be harmed in the least,

nor will we take a farthing from you."

"What is your purpose, then?" demanded the student. "Do you think we

will trust such villains as you? No indeed! If you have any business

with us, come on, in God's name; but the first one who ventures up here

I will brand on the forehead so that he will never suffer from headache

again!"

"Surrender the lady to us then," answered the robber. "She shall not

suffer harm; we will merely conduct her to a safe place, where she can

remain in comfort, while her servants return to the count and inform

him that he can ransom her for twenty thousand guldens!"

"Shall we listen to such propositions?" exclaimed the huntsman, furious

with rage as he cocked his gun. "I will count three, and if you are not

off before I say three, I will pull the trigger! One, two--"

"Hold!" shouted the robber in a tone of command. "Is it customary to

shoot at an unarmed man, who is holding a friendly parley with you?

Foolish fellow, you might shoot me dead, and after all not perform a

very heroic deed; but here stand twenty of my comrades who would avenge

me. How would it benefit your lady countess if you lay dead or stunned

on the floor? Believe me, if she will go with us without offering

resistance she shall be treated with every consideration, but if you

don't put down your gun before I have counted three, it shall fare hard

with her. Put down your gun!--One, two, three!"

"These dogs are not to be trifled with," whispered the huntsman to his

companion, as he obeyed the robber's command. "Really I am not afraid

of my own life, but if I were to shoot down one of them, it might be so

much the worse for my lady. I will consult with the countess." Then

turning to the robber he continued: "Give us a truce of half an hour in

order to prepare the countess. It would kill her if she were to be

informed of this suddenly."

"Granted," replied the robber, at the same time stationing a guard of

six men on the stair-case.

Bewildered and irresolute, the unfortunate travellers followed the

huntsman to the countess's chamber, which was close to the stairs, and

so loudly had the men spoken that the lady had not missed a word of

what had been said. She was pale, and trembled violently, but

nevertheless was firmly resolved to accept her fate.

"Why should I jeopardize the lives of so many brave men?" said she.

"Why demand of you, to whom I am a stranger, an idle defence? No; I see

no other chance of rescue than to follow these wretches."

All were impressed by the lady's spirit and misfortune. The huntsman

wept, and swore that he could not survive this disgrace. The student

reviled himself and his stature of six feet. "If I were only half a

head shorter and had no beard," said he, "I should know how to act; I

would dress myself in the lady countess's clothes, and these wretches

should find out only too late what a blunder they had made."

Felix also had been deeply moved by the lady's misfortune. Her whole

presence came so familiarly and affectingly before him, that it seemed

to him as if the mother whom he had lost in his youth was now in this

terrible situation. He would cheerfully have given his life for hers.

And, as the student spoke, his words awakened an idea in his mind; he

forgot all anxiety and every consideration but that of the rescue of

this lady.

"If that is all," said he, stepping forward timidly, and coloring as he

spoke, "if only a short stature, a beardless chin, and a courageous

heart are needed to rescue this lady, then perhaps I am not unfit for

that purpose. Put on my coat, gracious lady, hide your beautiful hair

beneath my hat, take my bundle on your back and go your way as Felix,

the goldsmith."

All were astonished at the youth's spirit, while the huntsman fell on

his neck in an ecstasy of joy. "Goldsmith," cried he, "you will do that?

You will slip into my gracious lady's clothes and thus save her? The

good God has prompted you to do it. But you shall not go alone; I will

share your captivity, will remain at your side as your best friend, and

while I live they shall not harm you."

"I too will go with you, as true as I live!" exclaimed the student.

Much persuasion was required before the countess would consent to this

scheme. She could not bear the thought that a stranger should sacrifice

himself for her; she could not help thinking that if the robbers

should afterward discover the deception practiced on them, they would

take a terrible revenge on the unfortunate youth. But finally she was

over-persuaded, partly by the entreaties of the young man, and partly

by the reflection that if she was saved she would make every exertion

to rescue her savior. The huntsman and the other travellers accompanied

Felix into the student's room, where he quickly threw on some of the

countess's clothes. To still further disguise him, the huntsman secured

some locks of the maid's false hair to the goldsmith's head, and tied

on the lady's hat. All declared that he would never be known; while the

compass-maker roundly asserted that if he had met him on the street he

should take off his hat without the slightest suspicion that he was

bowing to his courageous comrade.

The countess in the meanwhile, with the help of her maid, had dressed

herself in the clothes she found in the goldsmith's knapsack. With the

hat drawn down over the forehead, the staff in her hand, and the

knapsack on her back, she was completely disguised; and the travellers

would have laughed not a little at any other time, over this comical

masquerade. The new travelling journeyman thanked Felix with tears, and

promised the speediest assistance.

"I have only one request to make," answered Felix. "In the knapsack you

have on your back there is a small box; preserve this with the utmost

care, for if it should be lost, I should never be happy again. I must

carry it to my godmother and----"

"Godfried, the huntsman, knows where my castle is," interrupted the

lady. "Every thing shall be given back to you just as it was; for I

hope you will come yourself, noble young man, to receive the thanks of

my husband and myself."

Before Felix could reply, the harsh voices of the robbers were heard

calling from the stairs that the time was up, and that everything was

ready for the countess's journey. The huntsman went down to them, and

declared that he could not leave the countess, and would rather go with

them, wherever they might lead, than to return to his master without

his mistress. The student also insisted that he should be allowed to

accompany the lady. The robbers discussed the matter for some time, and

finally consented to the arrangement, provided that the huntsman should

at once surrender his weapons. Then they gave orders that the other

travellers should remain perfectly quiet while the countess was being

taken away.

Felix pulled down the veil that was spread over his hat, sat down in a

corner with one hand supporting his head, and, with the manner of one

in deep grief, awaited the robbers. The travellers had withdrawn to the

other room, but left the door ajar so that they could see all that

occurred. The huntsman sat down with an appearance of sadness, but

keeping a sharp eye on the corner of the room that the countess had

occupied. After they had sat thus for a few moments, the door opened,

and a handsome stately man of about thirty-six years of age entered the

room. He wore a kind of military uniform, an order on his breast, a

long sabre at his side, and in his hand he carried a hat decorated with

beautiful feathers. Two of his men guarded the door immediately after

his entrance.

He approached Felix with a low bow; he seemed to be somewhat

embarrassed in the presence of a lady of rank, as he made several

attempts before he was able to speak connectedly.

"Gracious lady," said he, "cases happen now and then in which one must

have patience; such an one is yours. Do not think that I shall for even

a moment lose sight of the respect due to so superior a lady. You shall

have every comfort, and will have nothing to complain of except perhaps

the fright you have suffered this evening." He paused here, as if

awaiting an answer; but as Felix made no reply, he continued: "Do not

look upon me as a common thief. I am an unfortunate man, whom adverse

circumstances have forced into this life. We are desirous of leaving

this region forever, but need money for that purpose. It would have

been an easy matter for us to fall upon merchants and stages, but

thereby we should have brought lasting misfortune on many people. Your

husband, the count, inherited half a million thalers not six weeks ago.

We ask for twenty thousand guldens of this superabundance; certainly a

just and moderate demand. You will, therefore, have the goodness to

write a note to the count at once, informing him that we are holding

you for a ransom, that he must send the money as quickly as possible,

and that unless he does so--you understand me, we should be compelled

to treat you with much less consideration. The ransom will not be

accepted unless brought by a single man, under a pledge of the

strictest secrecy."

This scene was viewed with the most anxious interest by all the guests

of the inn, but most anxiously of all by the countess. She trembled

every moment lest the young man should betray himself. She was firmly

resolved to ransom him for a large sum, but just as strong was her

resolve not to take a single step with these robbers for any earthly

consideration. She had found a knife in the goldsmith's coat pocket.

She held it open in her hand, prepared to kill herself rather than

suffer such a fate. Not less anxious was Felix himself. To be sure, he

was consoled and strengthened by the reflection that it was a manly and

praiseworthy act to come to the assistance of a helpless lady as he was

doing, but he feared lest he should betray himself by each movement or

by his voice. His alarm increased when the robber spoke of his writing

a letter. How should he write it? By what title should he address the

count? In what style should he write the letter, without betraying

himself? But his anxiety rose to the highest pitch, when the robber

chief laid paper and pen before him, and requested him to lift his veil

and write the letter.

Felix did not know how becoming this disguise was to him, or he would

not have entertained the least fear of discovery. For, as he finally

felt forced to raise his veil, the robber chief, surprised by the

beauty of the lady and her somewhat manly and spirited features,

regarded her with still greater respect. This fact did not escape the

young goldsmith's attention; and satisfied that at least for a moment

there was no danger of discovery, he took up the pen and wrote to his

pretended husband, after a form that he had once read in an old book:

"My Lord and Husband:--I, unhappy woman, have been seized, on my

journey, in the dead of night, by people whom I cannot credit with good

intentions. They will keep me a prisoner until you, Sir Count, have

paid down the sum of twenty thousand guldens for me. This is provided

you do not inform the authorities of this matter, or seek their

assistance; and that you send the money by a single messenger to the

forest inn in the Spessart. Otherwise I am threatened with a long and

severe imprisonment. Begging for the speediest deliverance,

I am your unhappy

WIFE."

He handed this remarkable letter to the robber chief, who read it

through and signified his approbation.

"It rests with you now to decide," said he, "whether you will be

accompanied by the huntsman or your maid. I shall send one of them to

your husband with this letter."

"The huntsman, and that gentleman there, will accompany me," answered

Felix.

"Very well," returned the robber, going to the door and summoning the

countess's maid. "Just give this woman her instructions."

The maid appeared, shivering and shaking. Felix too turned pale when he

reflected that here he was in danger once more of betraying himself.

Still the unexpected courage that had carried him safely through the

former ordeal, returned. "I have no further commands for you," said he,

"except that you desire the count to take me from this unfortunate

situation as quickly as possible."

"And," added the robber, "that you recommend the count most earnestly

and explicitly to keep silent about all this, and not to undertake any

action against us, before his wife is in his hands. Our spies would

give us timely warning of any such demonstrations on his part, and I

would not then be answerable for the consequences."

The trembling maid promised to obey these instructions. She was further

ordered to pack what dresses and linen the lady countess might need in

a small bundle, as they could not hamper themselves with much luggage;

and when this had been done, the robber chief, with a low bow,

requested the lady to follow him. Felix stood up, the huntsman and the

student followed, and, preceded by the robber, all three descended the

stairs.

Before the inn stood a large number of horses. One of them was

pointed out to the huntsman; another, a beautiful pony provided with a

side-saddle, stood ready for the countess; while a third was given to

the student. The leader lifted the young goldsmith to the saddle, fixed

him firmly in his seat, and then mounted a horse himself. He rode to

the right of the lady, while another of the robbers rode at her left

side. The student and huntsman were similarly guarded. As soon as the

band of robbers were mounted, the leader gave a loud and clear whistle

as a signal to start, and shortly the whole troop had disappeared in

the forest.

The company gathered in the chamber of the inn, gradually recovered

from their terror after the departure of the robbers. As is generally

the case after some great misfortune or sudden danger has passed by,

they would have been very cheerful had not their thoughts been occupied

with their three companions, who had been led away before their very

eyes. They all broke out in praise of the young goldsmith, and the

countess wept when she reflected how deeply she was indebted to one

upon whom she had no claim, whom she had never even known. It was a

consolation for them all to know that the heroic huntsman and the brave

student had accompanied him, and could comfort him in his hours of

despondency. They even entertained a hope that the experienced forester

would discover a means of escape for himself and companions. They

consulted together as to what they had better do. The countess resolved

that, as she was bound by no oath to the robbers, she would at once

return to her husband, and make every exertion to discover their

hiding-place, and set their prisoners free. The wagoner promised to go

to Aschaffenburg and summon the officials to organize a pursuit of the

robbers, while the compass-maker was to continue his journey.

The travellers were not disturbed any more that night; silence reigned

in the forest inn, that had an hour before been the theatre of terrible

scenes. But in the morning, when the servants of the countess went

below to prepare for her departure, they came running back, and

reported that they had found the landlady and her hostler bound on the

floor, and begging for assistance.

The travellers gazed at one another in astonishment. "What?" cried the

compass-maker. "Then these people must have been innocent. We have done

them wrong, for they can have no association with the robbers."

"I will allow myself to be hanged in their place," returned the

wagoner, "if we were not right after all. This is only a sham, designed

to prevent their conviction. Don't you remember the suspicious

appearance of this inn? Don't you remember how, when I started to go

down-stairs, the trained dog would not let me pass? how the landlady

and the hostler appeared instantly, and asked in a surly way what I was

after? Still, all this was well for us, or at least for the lady

countess. If things had worn a less suspicious air in the public room,

if the landlady had not aroused our distrust, we should not have

remained together, nor have kept awake. The robbers could have attacked

us in our sleep, or at least would have guarded our doors, so that the

substitution of the brave young goldsmith for the countess would not

have been possible."

They all agreed with the wagoner, and determined to lodge a complaint

against the landlady and her servant, before the magistrate. Still,

in order to be on the safe side, they concluded not to manifest the

least token of suspicion just yet. The servants and the wagoner went

down-stairs, loosened the bonds of the robbers' accomplices, and

conducted themselves as sympathetically and sorrowfully as possible. In

order to conciliate her guests still more, the landlady charged each

one but a very small amount, and extended them a hearty invitation to

call again.

The wagoner paid his reckoning, took leave of his companions in

misfortune, and started on his road. After him the two journeymen went

off. Light as the goldsmith's bundle had been made, it still seemed

heavy to the delicate lady. But still heavier was her heart, when the

traitorous landlady stretched out her hand to take leave of her at the

door. "Why," cried she, "what kind of a spark are you, to be going out

into the world so young? You must be a spoiled fellow, whom the master

chased out of his shop. But that's none of my business; do me the honor

to stop here on your return journey. Good luck to you!"

The countess was so nervous, and trembled so, that she did not dare

reply, least she should be betrayed by her voice. The compass-maker,

noticing her confusion, took his companion by the arm, bade good-bye to

the landlady, and sang a jovial song as they struck out into the

forest.

"Now I am really in safety," cried the countess, when they had put a

hundred paces between them and the inn. "To the last moment I feared

that the landlady would recognize me, and have her servant lock me up.

Oh, how can I thank you for all you have done? Come to my castle; you

must at least return to meet your travelling companions again."

The compass-maker consented, and while they were thus speaking, the

countess's carriage came rolling up behind them; the door was quickly

opened, the lady sprang inside, waved a farewell to the young

journeyman, and was driven rapidly away.

About this time, the robbers and their prisoners reached the camping

place of the band. They had ridden over a rough forest road at a fast

trot, exchanging not a word with their prisoners, and conversing among

themselves in low tones only when they changed their course. They

finally came to a halt just above a deep ravine. The robbers

dismounted, and their leader assisted the goldsmith from his horse,

apologizing for the fast and wearisome ride he had forced him to take,

and inquiring whether the gracious lady felt very much fatigued.

Felix answered him in as gentle a tone as he could assume, that he was

in need of rest; and the robber offered his arm to escort him into the

ravine. The descent was a very steep one, and the footpath was narrow

and precipitous. At last they were safely down. Felix saw before him by

the faint light of the opening day, a small narrow valley not more than

a hundred paces in circumference, that lay deep in a basin formed by

the precipitous rocks. Some six or eight small, board and log huts were

built in this ravine. A few untidy women peeped out curiously from

these hovels, and a pack of twelve large dogs and their countless

puppies surrounded the new-comers, howling and barking. The chief led

the countess to the best one of these huts, and told her that this was

exclusively for her own use; and granted Felix's request that the

huntsman and the student might be permitted to remain with him.

The hut was furnished with deer-skins and mats, which served at once

for a carpet and for seats. Some jugs and dishes, made out of wood, a

rusty old fowling-piece, and in the further corner a couch made of a

couple of boards and a few woollen blankets, which could hardly be

dignified by the name of a bed, were the only appointments of the

place.

Left alone together for the first time in this miserable hut, the three

prisoners had time to think over their strange situation. Felix, who

did not for a moment repent of his noble action, but who was still

nervous as to what would become of him in case of a discovery, gave

utterance to loud complaints; but the huntsman quickly checked him, and

whispered:

"For God's sake, be quiet, dear boy; don't you know that they will be

listening to us."

"Each word uttered in such a tone as that would create suspicion in

their minds," added the student.

Nothing remained to poor Felix but to weep silently. "Believe me, Mr.

Huntsman," said he, "I do not weep for fear of these robbers, or

because of this miserable hut; no, it is quite another kind of sorrow

that oppresses me. How easily might the countess forget what I said to

her so hastily, and then I should be considered a thief and thus made

miserable forever.

"But what is it, then, that causes you so much anxiety?" inquired the

huntsman, wondering at the demeanor of the young man, who, up to this

time, had borne himself so courageously.

"Listen, and you will do me justice," answered Felix. "My father was a

clever goldsmith of Nuremberg, and my mother, previous to her marriage,

had served as maid to a lady of rank, and when she married my father

she was finely fitted out by the countess whom she had served. The

countess remained a good friend to my parents, and after my birth she

stood as my godmother and made me many presents. And when my parents

died of a pestilence, and I, left alone in the world, was about to be

sent to the poorhouse, this lady godmother heard of my misfortune and

placed me in a boarding-school. When I was of the proper age, she wrote

to know if I would like to learn my father's trade. I jumped at the

chance, and she apprenticed me to a master of the art in Wuerzburg. I

took readily to the work, and had soon made such progress that I was

given a certificate, and could set out as a travelling journeyman. I

wrote this to my lady godmother, and she answered at once that she

would give me the money for my outfit. With the letter she sent some

splendid stones, and requested me to give them a beautiful setting, and

bring the ornament to her myself as a proof of my skill, and receive my

travelling money at the same time. I have never seen my lady godmother,

and you may imagine with what pleasure I undertook her commands. I

worked day and night on the ornament, and turned out such a beautiful

and delicate piece of work that even the master was astonished at my

skill. When it was completed, I packed my knapsack carefully, took

leave of my master, and started out on the journey to my lady

godmother's castle. Then," continued he, breaking into tears, "these

villainous robbers happened along and destroyed all my hopes. For if

your lady countess loses the ornament, or forgets what I told her and

throws away my old knapsack, how shall I ever face my lady godmother?

How should I prove my story? How could I replace the stones? And my

travelling money would also be lost, and I should appear as an

ungrateful fellow who had foolishly surrendered his charge. And,

finally, would any one believe me if I were to relate this wonderful

adventure?"

"Be of good cheer!" replied the huntsman. "I do not believe that your

ornament can be lost while in the keeping of the countess; and even if

such a thing should occur, she would be sure to make the loss good to

her deliverer, and would herself bear witness to these mischances. We

will leave you now for some hours, for we really need sleep, and after

the excitement of this night you ought to take some rest. Afterwards in

conversing with one another let us forget our misfortune for the time

being, or, better still, let us think about our escape."

They went away Felix remained alone, and made an attempt to follow the

huntsman's advice. When, after some hours, the student and huntsman

returned, they found their young friend in a much better mood. The

huntsman told the goldsmith that the chief of the band had assured him

that the lady should have every attention; and that in a few moments

one of the women whom they had seen about the huts would serve the lady

countess with coffee, and offer her services as attendant. They

resolved, in order not to be disturbed, to refuse this favor; and when

the ugly old gypsy woman came, set the breakfast before them, and

inquired in an obsequious manner whether she could be of any further

service, Felix motioned to her to leave, and as she still lingered, the

huntsman drove her out of the door. The student then narrated all that

they had learned about the camp.

"The hut in which you live, beautiful lady countess," began he, "seems

originally to have been designed for the leader of the band. It is not

so roomy, but it is much finer than the others. Beside this, there are

six others, in which the women and children live, for there are seldom

more than six robbers at home. One stands guard not far from this hut;

another below him, on the way to the path that leads out of the ravine;

and a third stands as sentinel above, at the entrance to the ravine.

Every second hour they are relieved by the three others. More than

this, each guard has two large dogs near him, and they are all so

wide-awake that one can not set foot outside the hut without being

barked at. I have no hope that we can steal out of this place."

"Don't make me sad; I feel more cheerful after my nap," returned Felix.

"Don't give up all hope, and if you fear discovery, let us rather talk

about something else, and not be troubled about the future. Herr

Student, you began a story in the inn; continue it now, for we have

time to amuse ourselves."

"I can scarcely remember what it was," answered the young man.

"You were relating the legend of 'The Marble Heart,' and had reached

the point where the landlord and the other gambler had put Charcoal

Pete out of doors."

"All right; it comes back to me now," replied he. "Well, if you wish to

hear more of it, I will continue."

THE MARBLE HEART.

SECOND PART.

When Peter went to his glass-works on Monday morning, he found not only

his workmen there, but also other people who do not make very pleasant

visitors--the sheriff and three bailiffs. The sheriff bade Peter good

morning, asked how he had slept, and then took out a long register, on

which were inscribed the names of Peter's creditors. "Can you pay or

not?" demanded the sheriff in a severe tone. "And be quick about the

matter too, for I have not much time to spare, and the prison is a

three hours ride from here." Peter, in great despondency, confessed

that he was unable to pay the claims, and left it to the sheriff to

appraise his house, glass-works, stable, and horses and carriage.

While the officials were conducting their examination, it occurred to

Peter that the Tannenbuehl was not far away, and as the little man had

not helped him, he would try the big man. He ran to the Tannenbuehl as

fast as though the officers had been at his heels; and it seemed to

him, as he rushed by the spot where he had first spoken to the Little

Glass-Man, that an invisible hand seized him--but he tore himself out

of its grasp, and ran on till he came to the boundary line, which he

remembered well; and hardly had he shouted: "Dutch Michel! Dutch

Michel!" when the giant raftsman, with his immense pole, stood before

him.

"Have you come at last?" said the giant, laughing. "Do they want to

strip you for the benefit of your creditors? Well, be quiet; your whole

trouble comes, as I told you it would, from the Little Glass-Man--the

hypocrite. When one gives, one should give generously, and not like

this miser. But come," continued he, turning towards the forest,

"follow me to my house, and we will see whether we can make a trade."

"Make a trade?" reflected Peter. "What can he want from me? How can I

make a bargain with him? Does he want me to do him some service, or

what is it he's after?"

They walked over a steep forest path, and suddenly came upon a dark and

deep ravine. Dutch Michel sprang down the rocks as if they were an easy

marble stair-case; but Peter came near fainting with fright, when Dutch

Michel on reaching the bottom, made himself as tall as a church

steeple, and stretched out an arm as long as a weaver's beam, with a

hand as broad as the table in the tavern, and shouted in a voice that

echoed like a deep funeral bell: "Set down on my hand and hold fast to

the fingers, and you will not fall." Peter tremblingly obeyed him,

taking a seat on the giant's hand, and holding on to his thumb.

They went down and down for a great distance, but still, to Peter's

astonishment it did not grow darker; on the contrary, it seemed to be

lighter in the ravine, so that for some time his eyes could not endure

the light. The farther they descended, the smaller did Dutch Michel

make himself, and he now, in his former stature, stood before a house

neither better nor worse than those owned by wealthy peasants in the

Black Forest. The room into which Peter was conducted did not differ

from the rooms of other houses, except that an indescribable air of

loneliness pervaded it. The wooden clock, the enormous Dutch tile

stove, the utensils on the shelves, were the same as those in use

every-where. Michel showed him to a seat behind the large table and

then went out, returning soon with a pitcher of wine and glasses. He

poured out the wine, and they talked at random, until Dutch Michel

began to tell about the pleasures of the world, of strange lands, and

of beautiful cities and rivers, so that Peter at last became possessed

of a strong desire to travel also, and told the giant so openly.

"However desirous you might be of undertaking anything, a couple of

quick beats of your silly heart would make you tremble; and as for

injured reputation, for misfortune, why should a sensible fellow

trouble himself with such matters? Did you feel the insult in your head

when recently you were called a cheat and swindler? Did your stomach

pain you when the sheriff came to turn you out of house and home? Tell

me, where were you conscious of pain?"

"In my heart," answered Peter, laying his hand on his breast; for it

seemed to him as though his heart was swinging to and fro unsteadily.

"You have--don't take it amiss--you have thrown away many hundred

guldens on idle beggars and other low fellows; how did that benefit

you? They blessed you, and wished you a long life; do you therefore

expect to live the longer? For the half of that wasted money you could

have employed physicians in your illness. Blessings?--Yes, it's a fine

blessing to have your property seized and yourself put out of doors!

And what was it that induced you to put your hand in your pocket

whenever a beggar held out his tattered hat?--your heart, once more

your heart; and neither your eyes nor your tongue, your arms nor your

legs, but your heart. You took it--as the saying is--too much to

heart."

"But how can one train himself so that it would not be so any more? I

am exerting myself now to control my heart, and still it beats and

torments me."

"Yes, no doubt you find that the case," replied the giant, with a

laugh. "You, poor fellow, can not manage it at all; but give me the

little beating thing, and then you will see how much better off you

will be."

"Give you my heart?" shrieked Peter in terror. "I should certainly die

on the spot! No, never!"

"Yes, if one of your learned surgeons was to perform the operation of

removing the heart from your body, you would certainly die; but with me

it would be quite another thing. Still, come this way, and satisfy

yourself." So saying, he got up, opened a chamber door, and took Peter

inside. The young man's heart contracted spasmodically as he stepped

over the sill, but he paid no attention to it, for the sight that met

his eyes was strange and surprising. On a row of shelves stood glasses

filled with a transparent fluid, and in each of these glasses was a

human heart; the glasses were also labeled with names, written on paper

slips, and Peter read them with great curiosity. Here was the heart of

the magistrate at F., of the Stout Ezekiel, of the King of the Ball, of

the head gamekeeper; there were the hearts of six corn factors, of

eight recruiting officers, of three scriveners--in short, it was a

collection of the most respectable hearts within a circumference of

sixty miles.

"Look!" said Dutch Michel. "All these have thrown away the cares and

sorrows of life. Not one of these hearts beats anxiously any longer,

and their former possessors are glad to be well rid of their

troublesome guests."

"But what do they carry in the breast in place of them?" asked Peter,

whose head began to swim at what he had seen.

"This," answered the giant, handing him, from a drawer, a _stone

heart_.

"What!" exclaimed Peter, as a chill crept over him. "A heart of marble?

But look you, Dutch Michel, that must be very cold in the breast."

"Certainly; but it is an agreeable coolness. Why should a heart be

warm? In winter the warmth of it is of no account; good cherry rum you

would find a better protection against the cold than a warm heart, and

in summer, when you are sweltering in the heat, you can not imagine how

such a heart will cool you. And, as I said before, there will be no

further anxiety or terror, neither any more silly pity, nor any sorrow,

with such a heart in your breast."

"And is that all you are able to give me?" asked Peter discontentedly.

"I hope for money, and you offer me a stone!"

"Well, I think a hundred thousand guldens will do you to start with. If

you handle that well, you can soon become a millionaire."

"One hundred thousand!" shouted the poor charcoal burner joyfully.

"There, don't beat so violently in my breast, we will soon be through

with one another. All right, Michel; give me the stone and the money,

and you may take the restless thing out of its cage."

"I thought you would show yourself to be a sensible fellow," said Dutch

Michel smiling. "Come, let us drink once more together, and then I will

count out the money."

So they sat down to the wine again, and drank until Peter fell into a

deep sleep. He was finally awakened by the ringing notes of a bugle

horn, and behold, he sat in a beautiful carriage, driving over a broad

highway, and as he turned to look out of the carriage, he saw the Black

Forest lying far behind him in the blue distance. At first he could

hardly realize that it was he himself who sat in the carriage; for even

his clothes were not the same that he had worn yesterday. But he

remembered every thing that had occurred so clearly, that he said: "I

am Charcoal Pete, that is certain, and nobody else."

He was surprised that he felt no sensation of sorrow, now that for the

first time he was leaving behind him his home and the woods where he

had lived so long. He could neither sigh nor shed a tear, as he thought

of his mother whom he was leaving in want and sorrow; for all this was

a matter of indifference to him now. "Tears and sighs," thought he,

"homesickness and melancholy, come from the heart, and--thanks to Dutch

Michel--mine is cold and stony."

He laid his hand on his breast, and it was perfectly quiet there. "If

he has kept his word as well with the hundred thousand guldens as he

has about the heart, I shall be happy," said he, and at once began a

search in his carriage; he found all manner of clothes, as fine as he

could wish them, but no money. At last he came upon a pocket which

contained many thousand thalers in gold, and drafts on bankers in all

the large cities. "Now it's all just as I wanted it," thought he; and

settling himself comfortably in a corner of the carriage, he journeyed

out into the wide world.

He traveled for two years about the world, looking out from his

carriage to the right and left at the buildings he passed by; and when

he entered a city he looked out only for the sign of the tavern. After

dinner he would be driven about the town, and have the sights pointed

out to him. But neither picture, house, music, dancing, nor any thing

else, rejoiced him. His heart of stone could not feel an interest in

any thing, and his eyes and ears were dulled to all that was beautiful.

No pleasures remained to him but those of eating, drinking and

sleeping. Now and then, it is true, he recalled the fact, that he had

been happier when he was poor and worked for his own support. Then

every beautiful view in the valley, the sound of music and song, had

rejoiced him; then he had been satisfied with the simple fare that his

mother had prepared and brought out to his fires. When he thus thought

of the past, it seemed very singular to him that he could not laugh at

all now, while then every little jest had amused him. When others

laughed, he simply affected to do the same as a mere matter of

politeness; but his heart did not join in the merriment. He felt then

that although he was destitute of emotion, yet he was far from being

contented. It was not homesickness or melancholy, but dullness,

weariness, and a joyless life, that finally drove him back to his

native place.

As he passed by Strasbourg and saw the dark forest in the distance, as

he once more saw the strong forms and honest, faithful faces of the

inhabitants of the Black Forest, as his ear caught the strong, deep,

well-remembered tones of his countrymen's voices, he put his hand

quickly to his heart, for his blood danced through his veins, and he

thought he should both weep and rejoice; but--how could he be so

foolish?--he had only a heart of stone, and stones are without feeling,

and neither laugh nor weep.

His first visit was to Dutch Michel, who received him with much show of

friendliness. "Michel," said Peter, "I have travelled and have seen

every thing, but experienced only weariness. Upon the whole, the stone

I carry in my breast saves me from many things; I never get angry, am

never sad, but at the same time I am never happy, and it seems to me as

if I only half lived. Can not you make the stone heart a little more

sensitive? or, give me back rather my old heart. I was accustomed to it

for twenty-five years, and even if it did sometimes lead me into a

foolish act, still it was a contented and happy heart."

The Spirit of the Forest laughed scornfully. "When you are once dead,

Peter Munk," replied he, "your heart shall not be missing; then you

shall have back your soft, sensitive heart, and then you will have an

opportunity to feel whatever comes, joy or sorrow. But in this world it

can never be yours again. Still, Peter, although you have travelled, it

won't do you any good to live in the way you have been doing. Settle

down somewhere here in the forest, build a house, marry, double your

wealth; you were only in want of some employment. Because you were

idle, you experienced weariness; and now you would charge it all to

this innocent heart."

Peter saw that Michel was right, so far as idleness was concerned, and

resolved to devote his energies to acquiring more and more riches.

Michel presented him with another hundred thousand guldens, and the two

parted on the best of terms.

The news soon spread throughout the Black Forest that Charcoal Pete, or

Gambler Pete, was back again, and richer than before. Things went on as

they had done. When he had been reduced to beggary, he was kicked out

of the tavern door; and when now, on one Sunday afternoon he drove up

to the tavern, his old associates shook his hand, praised his horse,

inquired about his journey; and when he began to play with the Stout

Ezekiel again for silver thalers, he stood higher than ever in the

esteem of the hangers-on. Instead of the glass business, he now went

into the timber trade; but this was only for sake of appearance, as his

chief business was that of a corn factor and money lender. Fully half

of the inhabitants of the Black Forest gradually fell into his debt, as

he only lent money at ten per cent interest, or sold corn to the poor,

who could not pay cash for it, at three times what it was worth. He

stood in intimate relations with the sheriff, and if one did not pay

Mr. Peter Munk on the day his note fell due, the sheriff would ride

over to the debtor's place, seize his house and land, sell it without

delay, and drive father, mother and child into the forest. At first

this course of action caused Peter some little trouble, for the people

who had been driven out of their homes blockaded his gates,--the men

pleading for time, the women attempting to soften his heart of stone,

and the children crying for a piece of bread. But when he had provided

himself with a couple of savage mastiffs, this charivari, as he called

it, very soon ceased. He whistled to the dogs, and set them on the pack

of beggars, who would scatter with screams in all directions. But the

most trouble was given him by an old woman, who was none other than

Peter's mother. She had been plunged into misery and want, since her

house and lot had been sold, and her son, on his return, rich as he

was, would not look after her wants. Therefore she occasionally

appeared at his door, weak and old, leaning on a staff. She dared not

enter the house, for he had once chased her out of the door; but it

pained her to live on the charity of other people, when her own son was

so well able to provide for her old age. But the cold heart was never

disturbed by the sight of the pale, well-known features, by her

pleading looks or by the withered, outstretched hand, or the tottering

form. And when on a Saturday she knocked at his door, he would take out

a sixpence, grumbling meanwhile, roll it up in a piece of paper, and

send it out to her by a servant. He could hear her trembling voice as

she returned thanks and wished that all happiness might be his; he

heard her steal away from the door coughing, but gave her no further

thought, except to reproach himself with having thrown away a good

sixpence.

[Illustration]

Finally Peter began to think about getting married. He knew that there

was not a father in the whole Black Forest who would not have been glad

to give him his daughter; but he meant to be particular in his choice,

for he wished that in this matter, too, his luck and his judgment

should be recognized. Therefore he rode all through the forest,

searching here and there, but not one of the beautiful Black Forest

maidens seemed beautiful enough for him. Finally, after he had looked

through all the ball rooms in a vain search for his ideal beauty, he

one day heard that the daughter of a certain woodchopper was the most

beautiful and virtuous of all the Black Forest maidens. She lived a

very quiet life, kept her father's house in the neatest order, and

never showed herself at a ball, not even on holidays. When Peter heard

of this Black Forest beauty, he resolved to obtain her, and rode to the

hut to which he was directed. The father of the beautiful Lisbeth

received the gentleman in much surprise, but was still more astonished

to hear that this was the wealthy Mr. Peter Munk, and that the

gentleman wished to become his son-in-law. Believing that now all his

cares and his poverty were at an end, the old man did not hesitate very

long, but consented to the match without stopping to consult his

daughter's inclinations, and the good child was so dutiful that she

made no objections, and soon became Mrs. Peter Munk.

But things did not go as well with the poor girl as she had dreamed.

She thought she had a perfect knowledge of how to manage a house; but

she could not do any thing that seemed to please her husband. She had

sympathy with poor people, and, as her husband was so rich, she thought

it would be no sin to give a farthing to a poor beggar woman or to hand

an old man a cup of tea. But when Peter saw her do this one day, he

said, in a harsh voice and with angry looks: "Why do you waste my means

on idlers and vagabonds? Did you bring anything into the house, that

you can throw money away like a princess? If I catch you at this again,

you shall feel my hand!"

The beautiful Lisbeth wept in her chamber over the cruel disposition

of her husband, and often did she feel that she would rather be

back in her father's hut than to live with the rich but miserly and

hard-hearted Peter. Alas, had she known that her husband had a marble

heart, and could neither love her nor any one else, she would not have

wondered so much at his actions. But whenever she sat at the door, and

a beggar came up, took off his hat and began to speak, she now cast her

eyes down that she might not see the poor fellow, and clasped her hands

lighter lest she should involuntarily feel in her pocket for money. So

it happened that the beautiful Lisbeth came to be badly spoken of

throughout the entire Forest, and it was asserted that she was even

more miserly than Peter himself.

But one day while Lisbeth was sitting before the house, spinning, and

humming a song--for she felt in unusually good spirits, as the weather

was fine and Peter had ridden off--a little old man came up the road,

carrying a large, heavy sack. Lisbeth had heard him panting while he

was still at some distance, and she looked at him sympathetically,

thinking that so old and weak a man ought not to carry so heavy a

burden.

In the meantime the man had staggered and panted up, and when he was

opposite Lisbeth, he almost fell down under the sack. "Alas, take pity

on me, madame, and hand me a glass of water," said the little man; "I

can not go another step, and I fear I shall faint."

"But at your age you ought not to carry such a heavy load," said

Lisbeth.

"Yes, if I was not forced by poverty to serve as a messenger," answered

he. "Alas, a rich lady like you does not know how poverty pinches, and

how refreshing a drink of water would be on such a hot day."

On hearing this Lisbeth rushed into the house, took a pitcher from the

shelf and filled it with water; but when she returned with it, and had

come within a few feet of the man, she saw how miserable he appeared as

he sat on the sack, and, remembering that her husband was not at home,

she set the pitcher of water to one side, got a goblet and filled it

with wine, laid a slice of rye bread on top of it, and brought it out

to the old man. "There; a sip of wine, at your age, will do you more

good than water," said she. "But don't drink it so hastily, and eat

your bread with it."

The little man looked at her in astonishment, while tears gathered in

his eyes. He drank the wine and then said: "I have grown old, but I

have seen few people who were so merciful, and who knew how to make

gifts as handsomely and heartily as you do, Frau Lisbeth. And for this

your life on earth shall be a happy one; such a heart will not remain

without a reward."

"No, and she shall have her reward on the spot!" shouted a terrible

voice; and as they turned, there stood Peter with an angry face.

"So you were pouring out my best wine for beggars, and giving my own

goblet to the lips of a vagrant? There, take your reward!"

Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged his forgiveness; but the

heart of stone felt no pity; he turned the whip he held in his hand,

and struck such a blow with the butt of it on her beautiful forehead,

that she sank lifeless into the arms of the old man. When Peter saw

this, he seemed to regret it on the instant, he bent down to see

if there was still life in her, but the little man said to him in a

well-known voice: "Don't trouble yourself. Charcoal Peter! It was the

sweetest and loveliest flower in the Black Forest; but you have

destroyed it, and it will never bloom again."

The blood left Peter's cheeks, as he said: "It is you then, Herr

Schatzhauser? Well, what is done, is done, and must have come to pass.

I hope, however, that you won't charge me with being her murderer

before the magistrate."

"Wretch!" exclaimed the Little Glass-Man, "how would it console me to

bring your mortal frame to the gallows? It is not earthly judges whom

you have to fear, but other and severer ones, for you have sold your

soul to the evil one."

"And if I have sold my heart," shrieked Peter, "you and your miserable

treasures are to blame for it! You, malicious spirit, have led me to

perdition, driven me to seek help of another, and you are answerable

for it all."

But hardly had Peter said this, when the Little Glass-Man swelled and

grew, and became both tall and broad, while his eyes were as large as

soup plates, and his mouth was like a heated oven from which flames

darted forth. Peter threw himself on his knees, and his marble heart

did not prevent his limbs from trembling like an aspen tree. The Spirit

of the Forest seized him by the neck with the talons of a hawk, and

whirled him about as a whirlwind sweeps up the dead leaves, and then

threw him to the ground with such force that all his ribs cracked.

"Earth-worm!" cried he, in a voice like a roll of thunder, "I could

dash you to pieces if I chose, for you have insulted the Master of the

Forest. But for this dead woman's sake, who has given me food and

drink, you shall have an eight days' reprieve. If you don't mend your

ways by that time, I will come and grind your limbs to powder, and you

shall die in all your sins!"

Night had come on, when some men who were passing saw the rich Peter

Munk lying on the ground. They turned him over, and searched for signs

of life; but for some time their efforts to restore him were in vain.

Finally one of them went into the house and brought out some water,

with which they sprinkled his face. Thereupon Peter drew a long breath,

groaned, and opened his eyes, looked about him, and inquired after

Lisbeth; but none of them had seen her. He thanked the men for the

assistance they had rendered him, slipped into his house and searched

every-where; but Lisbeth was nowhere to be found, and what he had taken

for a horrible dream was the bitter truth.

While he was sitting there quite alone, some strange thoughts came into

his mind; he was not afraid of anything, for his heart was cold; but

when he thought of his wife's death, the thought of his own death came

to him and he reflected how heavily he should be weighted on leaving

the world--burdened with the tears of the poor, with thousands of their

curses, with the agony of the poor wretches on whom he had set his

dogs, with the silent despair of his mother, with the blood of the good

and beautiful Lisbeth; and if he could not give an account to the old

man, her father, if he should come and ask, "Where is my daughter?" how

should he respond to the question of Another, to whom all forests, all

seas, all mountains, and the lives of all mortals, belong?

His sleep was disturbed by dreams, and every few moments he was

awakened by a sweet voice calling to him: "Peter, get a warmer heart!"

And when he woke he quickly closed his eyes again; for the voice that

gave him this warning was the voice of Lisbeth, his wife.

The following day he went to the tavern to drown his reflections in

drink, and there he met the Stout Ezekiel. He sat down by him; they

talked about this and that, of the fine weather, of the war, of the

taxes, and finally came to talk about death, and how this and that one

had died suddenly. Peter asked Ezekiel what he thought about death and

a future life. Ezekiel replied that the body was buried, but that the

soul either rose to heaven or descended to hell.

"But do they bury one's heart also?" asked Peter, all attention,

"Why, certainly, that is also buried."

"But how would it be if one did not have his heart any longer?"

continued Peter.

Ezekiel looked at him sharply as he spoke those words. "What do you

mean by that? Do you imagine that I haven't a heart?"

"Oh, you have heart enough, and as firm as a rock," replied Peter.

Ezekiel stared at him in astonishment, looked about him to see if any

one had overheard Peter, and then said:

"Where do you get this knowledge? Or perhaps yours does not beat any

more?"

"It does not beat any more, at least not here in my breast!" answered

Peter Munk. "But tell me--now that you know what I mean--how will it be

with our hearts!"

"Why should that trouble you, comrade?" asked Ezekiel laughing. "We

have a pleasant course to run on earth, and that's enough. It is

certainly one of the best things about our cold hearts, that we

experience no fear in the face of such thoughts."

"Very true; but still one will think on these subjects, and although I

do not know what fear is, yet I can remember how much I feared hell

when I was a small and innocent boy."

"Well, it certainly won't go very easy with us," said Ezekiel. "I once

questioned a school-master on that point, and he told me that after

death the hearts were weighed, to find out how heavily they had sinned.

The light ones then ascended, the heavy ones sank down; and I think

that our stones will have a pretty good weight."

"Alas, yes," replied Peter; "and I often feel uncomfortable, that my

heart is so unsympathetic and indifferent, when I think on such

subjects."

On the next night, Peter heard the well-known voice whisper in his ear,

five or six times: "Peter, get a warmer heart!" He experienced no

remorse at having killed his wife, but when he told the domestics that

she had gone off on a journey, the thought had instantly occurred to

him: "Where has she probably journeyed to?"

For six days he had lived on in this manner, haunted by these

reflections, and every night he heard this voice, which brought back to

his recollection the terrible threat of the Little Glass-Man; but on

the seventh morning he sprang up from his couch crying: "Now, then, I

will see whether I can procure a warmer heart, for this emotionless

stone in my breast makes my life weary and desolate." He quickly drew

on his Sunday attire, mounted his horse, and rode to the Tannenbuehl.

In the Tannenbuehl the trees stood too closely together to permit of

his riding further, so he tied his horse to a tree, and with hasty

steps went up to the highest point of the hill and when he reached the

largest pine he spoke the verse that had once caused him so much

trouble to learn:

"Keeper of green woods of pine,

All its lands are only thine;

Thou art many centuries old;

Sunday-born children thee behold."

Thereupon the Little Glass-Man appeared, but not with a pleasant

greeting as before; his expression was sad and stern. He wore a coat of

black glass, and a long piece of crape fluttered down from his hat.

Peter well knew for whom the Spirit of the Wood sorrowed.

"What do you want of me, Peter Munk?" asked the Little Glass-Man in a

hollow voice.

"I have still one wish left, Herr Schatzhauser," answered Peter, with

downcast eyes.

"Can hearts of stone have any wishes?" said the Glass-Man. "You have

every thing needful for your wicked course of life, and it is doubtful

whether I should grant your wish."

"But you promised me three wishes; and I have one left yet."

"Still, I have the right to refuse it if it should prove a foolish

one," continued the Glass-Man. "But proceed, I will hear what it is you

want."

"I want you to take this lifeless stone out of my breast, and give me

in its place my living heart," said Peter.

"Did I make that bargain with you? Am I Dutch Michel, who gives riches

and cold hearts? You must look to him for your heart."

"Alas, he will nevermore give it back to me," replied Peter.

"Wicked as you are, I pity you," said the Little Glass-Man after a

pause. "But as your wish is not a foolish one, I can not refuse you my

assistance at least. So listen. You can not recover your heart by

force, but possibly you may do so by stratagem; and this may not prove

such a hard matter after all, for Michel, although he thinks himself

uncommonly wise, is really a very stupid fellow. So go directly to him,

and do just as I shall tell you."

The Little Glass-Man then instructed Peter in what he was to do, and

gave him a small cross of clear crystal. "He can not harm you while you

live, and he will let you go free if you hold this up before him and

pray at the same time. And if you should get back your heart, then

return to this place, where I shall be awaiting you."

Peter Munk took the cross, impressed on his memory all the words he was

to say, and went to Dutch Michel's ravine. He called him three times by

name, and immediately the giant stood before him.

"Have you killed your wife?" asked the giant, with a fiendish laugh. "I

should have done it in your place, for she was giving away your wealth

to the beggars. But you had better leave the country for a while, for

an alarm will be given if she is not found. You will need money, and

have probably come after it."

"You have guessed rightly," said Peter, "and make it a large amount

this time, for America is far away."

Michel preceded Peter into the hut, where he opened a chest in which

was piled a large amount of money, and took out whole rolls of gold.

While he was counting them out on the table, Peter said: "You are a

frivolous fellow, Michel, to cheat me into thinking that I had a stone

in the breast and that you had my heart!"

"And is that not so?" asked Michel, surprised. "Can you feel your

heart? Is it not as cold as ice? Can you experience fear or sorrow, or

can any thing cause you remorse?"

"You have only made my heart stand still, but I have it just the same

as ever in my breast, and Ezekiel, too, says that you have lied to us.

You are not the man who can tear a heart from another's breast without

his knowing it, and without endangering his life; you would have to be

a sorcerer to do that."

"But I assure you," cried Michel indignantly, "that you and Ezekiel,

and all the rich people who have had dealings with me, have hearts as

cold as your own, and I have their true hearts here in my chamber."

"Why, how the lies slip over your tongue!" laughed Peter. "You may tell

that to some body else. Do you suppose that I haven't seen dozens of

just such imitations on my travels? The hearts in your chamber are

fashioned from wax! You are a rich fellow, I admit, but no sorcerer."

The giant, in a rage, flung open the chamber door. "Come in here, and

read all these labels; and look! that glass there holds Peter Munk's

heart. Do you see how it beats? Can one imitate that too in wax?"

"Nevertheless, it is made of wax;" exclaimed Peter. "A real heart

doesn't beat in that way; and besides, I still have my own in my

breast. No indeed, you are not a sorcerer!"

"But I will prove it to you!" cried the giant, angrily. "You shall feel

it yourself, and acknowledge that it is your heart." He took it out,

tore Peter's jacket open, and took a stone from the young man's breast

and held it up to him. Then taking up the beating heart, he breathed on

it, and placed it carefully in its place, and at once Peter felt it

beating in his breast, and he could once more rejoice thereat.

"How is it with you now?" asked Michel smiling.

"Verily, you were right," answered Peter, meanwhile drawing the little

crystal cross from his pocket. "I would not have believed that one

could do such a thing!"

"Is it not so? And I can practice magic, as you see; but come, I will

put the stone back again now."

"Gently, Herr Michel!" cried Peter, taking a step backward, and holding

up the cross between them. "One catches mice with cheese, and this time

you are trapped." And forthwith, Peter began to pray, speaking whatever

words came readily to his mind.

Thereupon, Michel became smaller and smaller, sank down to the floor,

writhed and twisted about like a worm, and gasped and groaned, while

all the hearts began to beat and knock against their glass cages, until

it sounded like the workshop of a clock-maker. Peter was very much

frightened, and ran out of the house, and, driven on by terror, scaled

the cliffs; for he heard Michel get up from the floor, stamp and rage,

and shout after him the most terrible curses. On arriving at the top of

the ravine, Peter ran towards the Tannenbuehl. A terrible thunderstorm

came up; lightning flashed to the right and left, and shattered many

trees, but he reached the Little Glass-Man's territory unharmed.

His heart beat joyfully, because of the very pleasure it seemed to

take in beating. But soon he looked back at his past life with horror,

as at the thunder storm that had shattered the trees behind him. He

thought of Lisbeth, his good and beautiful wife, whom he had murdered

in his avarice. He looked upon himself as an outcast from mankind, and

wept violently as he came to the Glass-Man's hill.

Herr Schatzhauser sat under the pine tree, smoking a small pipe, but

looking more cheerful than before.

"Why do you weep, Charcoal Pete?" asked he. "Did you not get your

heart? Does the cold one still lie in your breast?"

"Alas, Master!" sighed Peter, "when I had the cold stone heart, I never

wept. My eyes were as dry as the earth in July; but now the old heart

is nearly broken in thinking of what I have done. I drove my debtors

into misery and want, set my dogs on the poor and sick, and--you

yourself saw how my whip fell on her beautiful forehead!"

"Peter, you were a great sinner!" said the Little Glass-Man. "Money and

idleness ruined you, until your heart, turned to stone, knew neither

joy nor sorrow, remorse nor pity. But repentance brings pardon, and if

I were only sure that you were very sorry for your past life, I might

do something for you."

"I do not want any thing more," replied Peter, with drooping head. "It

is all over with me. I shall never know happiness again. What can I do,

now that I am alone in the world? My mother will never pardon my

behavior toward her; and perhaps I, monster that I am, have already

brought her to the grave. And Lisbeth, my wife! No; rather kill me,

Herr Schatzhauser, and make an end of my miserable life at once."

"Very well," replied the little man, "if you will have it so; my ax is

close by." He took his pipe quietly from his mouth, knocked out the

ashes, and stuck it in his pocket. Then he rose slowly and went behind

the tree. Peter sat weeping on the grass, caring nothing for his life,

and waiting patiently for the death-blow. After some time he heard

light steps behind him, and thought: "Now he is coming."

"Look round once more, Peter Munk!" shouted the little man. Peter wiped

the tears from his eyes and looked about him, and saw--his mother, and

Lisbeth, his wife, who both looked at him pleasantly. He sprang up

joyfully saying:

"Then you are not dead, Lisbeth? And you too, mother, have you forgiven

me?"

"They will forgive you," said the Little Glass-Man, "because you feel

true repentance, and every thing shall be forgotten. Return home now to

your father's hut, and be a charcoal burner as before, and if you are

honest and just you will honor your trade, and your neighbors will love

and esteem you more highly than if you had ten tons of gold." Thus

spake the Little Glass-Man, and bade them farewell.

The three praised and blessed him, and then started home. The splendid

house of the rich Peter Munk had vanished. The lightning had struck and

consumed it, together with all its treasures. But it was not far to his

mother's hut; thence they took their way, untroubled by the loss of

Peter's palace.

But how astonished were they on coming to the hut to find that it had

been changed into a large house, like those occupied by the well-to-do

peasants, and every thing inside was simple, was good and substantial.

"The good Little Glass-Man has done this!" exclaimed Peter.

"How beautiful!" cried Lisbeth; "and here I shall feel much more at

home than in the great house with so many servants."

From this time forth, Peter Munk was a brave and industrious man. He

was contented with what he had, carried on his trade cheerfully, and so

it came to pass that through his own efforts he became well-to-do and

was well thought of throughout the Black Forest. He never quarreled

again with his wife, honored his mother, and gave to the poor who

passed his door. When, in due course of time, a beautiful boy was born

to him, Peter went to the Tannenbuehl and spoke his verse. But the

Little Glass-Man did not respond. "Herr Schatzhauser," cried Peter,

"hear me this time; I only want to ask you to stand as godfather to my

little boy!" But there was no reply; only a puff of wind blew through

the pines and threw some cones down into the grass. "I will take these

with me as a memento, since you will not show yourself," said Peter. He

put the cones in his pocket, and went home; but when he took off his

Sunday jacket and gave it to his mother to put away, four large rolls

of coin fell from the pockets, and when they were opened they proved to

be good, new Baden thalers, with not a counterfeit among them. And this

was the godfather's gift from the little man in the Tannenbuehl to the

little Peter.

Thus they lived on, quietly and contentedly; and often afterwards, when

the gray hairs began to show on Peter's head, he would say: "It is

better to be contented with a little than to have gold and estates with

a _marble heart_."

Some five days had now passed, and Felix, the huntsman and the student

were still the prisoners of the robbers. They were well treated by the

chief and his men, but still they longed for their freedom, for each

day that passed added to their fear of discovery. On the evening of the

fifth day, the huntsman declared to his companions in misfortune that

he was fully resolved to escape that night or die in the attempt. He

incited his companions to the same resolve, and showed them how they

should set about the attempt. "The guard who is posted nearest to us, I

will look after," said he. "It is a case of necessity, and necessity

knows no law;--he must die!"

"Die!" repeated Felix in horror; "you would kill him?"

"I am firmly resolved to do it, when it comes to the question of saving

two human lives. You must know that I overheard the robbers whispering,

in an anxious manner, that the woods were being scoured for them; and

the old women, in their anger, let out the wicked designs of the band;

they cursed about us, and it is an understood thing that if the robbers

are attacked we shall die without mercy."

"God in Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, hiding his face in his hands.

"Still, they have not put the knives to our throats as yet," continued

the huntsman, "therefore, let us get the start of them. When it gets

dark I will steal up to the nearest guard; he will challenge me; I

shall whisper to him that the countess has been suddenly taken very

sick, and while he is off his guard I will stab him. Then I will return

for you, and the second guard will not escape us any more easily; and

between us three the third sentinel will not stand much of a show."

The huntsman, as he spoke, looked so terrible that Felix was actually

in fear of him. He was about to beg of him to give up these bloody

designs, when the door of the hut opened softly, and a man's form stole

in quickly. It was the robber chief. He closed the door carefully

behind him, and motioned to the prisoners to keep quiet. He then sat

down near Felix, and said:

"Lady countess, your situation is a desperate one. Your husband has not

kept faith with us; not only has he failed to send the ransom, but he

has also aroused the government against us, and the militia are

scouring the forest in all directions to capture me and my men. I have

threatened your husband with your death, if an attempt was made to

seize us; still either your life must be of very little account to him,

or else he does not think we are in earnest. Your life is in our hands,

and is forfeited under our laws. Have you any thing to say on the

subject?"

The prisoners looked down in great perplexity; they knew not what to

answer, for Felix felt sure that a confession of his disguise would

only increase their danger.

"It is impossible for me," continued the robber, "to place a lady, for

whom I have the utmost esteem, in danger. Therefore I will make a

proposition for your rescue; it is the only way out that is left you;

_I will fly with you._"

Surprised, astonished beyond measure, they all looked at him while he

continued: "The majority of my comrades have decided to go to Italy,

and join a band of brigands there; but for my part it would not suit me

to serve under another, and therefore I shall make no common cause with

them. If, now, you will give me your word, lady countess, to speak a

good word for me, to use your influence, with your powerful

connections, for my protection, then I will set you free before it is

too late."

Felix was at a loss what to say. His honest heart was opposed to

willfully exposing a man, who was offering to save his life, to a

danger from which he might not afterwards be able to protect him. As he

still remained silent, the robber continued: "At the present time,

soldiers are wanted every-where; I will be satisfied with the most

common position. I know that you have great influence, but I will not

ask for any thing further than your promise to do something for me in

this case."

"Well, then," replied Felix, with eyes cast down, "I promise you to do

what I can, whatever is in my power, to be of use to you. There is some

consolation for me in the fact that of your own free will you are

anxious to give up this life of a brigand."

The robber chief kissed his hand with much emotion, and added, in a

whisper, that the countess must be ready to go two hours after night

had set in; and then left the hut with as much caution as he had

entered it. The prisoners breathed freer, when he had gone.

"Verily," exclaimed the huntsman, "God has softened his heart. How

wonderful our means of escape! Did I ever dream that any thing like

this could happen in the world, and that I should fall in with such an

adventure?"

"Wonderful, certainly!" said Felix; "but have I done right in deceiving

this man? What will my protection amount to? Shall I not be luring him

to the gallows, if I do not confess to him who I am?"

"Why, how is it possible you can have such scruples, dear boy?"

exclaimed the student; "and after you have played your part to such

perfection, too! No, you needn't feel anxious on that score at all;

that is nothing but a lawful subterfuge. Did he not attempt the outrage

of kidnapping a noble lady? No, you have not done wrong; moreover I

believe he will win favor with the authorities, when he, the head of

the band, voluntarily surrenders himself."

This last reflection comforted the young goldsmith. In joyful

anticipations alternating with uneasy apprehensions over the success of

the plan of escape, they passed the succeeding hours. It was already

dark when the chief returned, laid down a bundle of clothes, and said:

"Lady countess, in order to facilitate our flight, it is necessary for

you to put on this suit of men's clothes. Get all ready. In an hour we

shall begin our march." With these words, he left the prisoners; and

the huntsman had great difficulty in refraining from laughter. "This

will be the second disguise," cried he, "and I am sure that this will

be better suited to you than the first one was!"

They opened the bundle and found a handsome hunting costume, with all

its belongings, which fitted Felix well. After he had put it on, the

huntsman was about to throw the countess's clothes into a corner of the

hut; but Felix would not consent to leave them there; he made a small

bundle of them, and hinted that he meant to ask the countess to present

them to him, and that he would preserve them all his life as a memento

of these eventful days.

Finally the robber chief came. He was fully armed, and brought the

huntsman the rifle that had been taken away from him, and a powder-horn

as well. He also gave the student a musket, and handed Felix a hunting

knife, with the request that he would carry it and use it in case of

necessity. It was fortunate for the three men that it was so dark, for

the eager air with which Felix received this weapon might have betrayed

his sex to the robber. As they stole carefully out of the hut, the

huntsman noticed that the post near their hut was not guarded, so that

it was possible for them to slip away from the huts unnoticed; yet the

leader did not take the path that led up out of the ravine, but brought

them all to a cliff that was so nearly perpendicular as to seem quite

impassible. Arriving there, their guide showed them a rope-ladder

secured to the rocks above. He swung his rifle on his back, and climbed

up a little way, telling the countess to follow him, and offering his

hand to assist her. The huntsman was the last to climb up. Arriving at

the top of the cliff, they soon struck a foot-path, and walked away at

a fast pace.

[Illustration]

"This foot-path," said their guide, "leads to the Aschaffenburg road.

We will go to that place, as I have received information that your

husband, the count, is stopping there now."

They walked on in silence, the robber chief keeping the lead, and the

others following close at his heels. After a three hours' walk, they

stopped. The robber recommended Felix to sit down and rest. He then

brought out some bread, and a flask of old wine, and offered this

refreshment to the weary ones. "I believe that within an hour we shall

strike some of the outposts established by the militia all around the

forest. In that case I beg you to bespeak good treatment for me of the

commanding officer."

Felix assented, although he expected but little good to result from his

interference. They rested for half an hour, and then continued their

walk. They had gone on for about an hour, and had nearly reached the

highway; the day was just breaking, and the shadows of night were

disappearing from the forest, when their steps were suddenly arrested

by a loud "Halt!" Five soldiers surrounded them, and told them that

they must be taken before the commanding officer, and give an account

of their presence in the forest. When they had gone fifty paces

further, under the escort of the soldiers, they saw weapons gleaming in

the thicket to the right and left of them; a whole army seemed to have

taken possession of the forest.

The mayor sat, with several other officers, under an oak tree. When the

prisoners were brought before him, and just as he was about to question

them as to whence they came and whither they were bound, one of the men

sprang up exclaiming: "Good Heaven! what do I see? that is surely

Godfried, our forester!"

"You are right, Mr. Magistrate!" answered the huntsman, in a joyful

voice. "It is I, and I have had a wonderful rescue from the hands of

those wretches."

The officers were astonished to see him; and the huntsman asked the

mayor and the magistrate to step aside with him, when he related to

them, in a few words, how they had escaped, and who the fourth man that

accompanied them was.

Rejoiced at this news, the mayor at once made preparations to have this

important prisoner conveyed to another point; and then he led the young

goldsmith to his comrades, and introduced him as the heroic youth that

had, by his courage and presence of mind, saved the countess; and they

all took Felix by the hand, praised him, and could not hear enough from

him and the huntsman about their adventures.

In the meantime it had become broad daylight. The mayor decided to

accompany the rescued ones to the town. He went with them to the

nearest village, where a wagon stood, and invited Felix to take a seat

with him in the wagon; while the student, the huntsman, the magistrate,

and many other people, rode before and after them; and thus they

entered the city in triumph. Reports of the attack on the forest inn,

and of the sacrifice of the young goldsmith, had spread over the

country like wildfire; and just as rapidly did the news of their rescue

now pass from mouth to mouth. It was, therefore, not to be wondered at,

that they found the streets of the city crowded with people who were

eager to catch a glimpse of the young hero. Everybody pressed forward,

as the wagon rolled slowly through the streets. "There he is!" shouted

the crowd. "Do you see him there in the wagon beside the officer! Long

live the brave young goldsmith!" And the cheers of a thousand voices

rent the air.

Felix was deeply moved by the hearty welcome of the crowd. But a still

more affecting reception awaited him at the court-house. A middle-aged

man met him on the steps, and embraced him with tears in his eyes. "How

can I reward you, my son?" cried he. "You have saved me my wife, and my

children their mother; for the shock of such an imprisonment her gentle

frame could not have survived."

Strongly as Felix insisted that he would not accept of any reward for

what he had done, the more did the count seem resolved that he should.

At last the unfortunate fate of the robber chief occurred to the

youth's mind, and he related to the count how this man had rescued him,

thinking that he was the countess, and that therefore the robber was

really entitled to the count's gratitude. The count, moved not so much

by the action of the robber chief as by this fresh display of

unselfishness on Felix's part, promised to do his best to save the

robber from the punishment due his crimes.

On the same day, the count took the young goldsmith, accompanied by the

stout-hearted huntsman, to his palace, where the countess, still

anxious for the fate of the young man, was waiting for news from the

forest. Who could describe her joy when her husband entered her room,

holding her deliverer by the hand? She was never through questioning

and thanking him; she brought her children and showed to them the

noble-hearted youth to whom their mother owed so much, and the little

ones seized his hands, and the child-like way in which they spoke their

thanks and their assurances that, next to their father and mother, they

loved him better than any one else in the whole world, were to him a

most blessed recompense for many sorrows, and for the sleepless nights

he had passed in the robbers' camp.

After the first moments of rejoicing were over, the countess beckoned

to a servant, who presently brought the clothes and the knapsack that

Felix had turned over to the countess in the forest inn. "Here is every

thing," said she, with a kindly smile, "that you gave me on that

terrible night; they enveloped me with a glamour that blinded my

pursuers. They are once more at your service; still I will make you an

offer for these clothes, that I may have some mementoes of you. And I

ask you to take in exchange the sum which the robbers demanded for my

ransom."

Felix was confounded by the munificence of this present; his nobler

self revolted against accepting a reward for what he had done

voluntarily. "Gracious countess," said he, deeply moved, "I can not

consent to this. The clothes shall be yours as you wished; but the

money of which you spoke I can not take. Still, as I know that you are

desirous of rewarding me in some way, instead of any other reward, let

me continue to be blessed with your best wishes, and should I ever

happen to be in need of assistance, you may be sure that I will call on

you." In vain did the countess and her husband seek to change the young

man's resolution; and the servant was about to carry the clothes and

knapsack out again, when Felix remembered the ornament, which the

occurrence of these happy scenes had put out of his mind.

"Wait," cried he; "there is one thing in my knapsack, gracious lady,

that you must permit me to take; every thing else shall be wholly and

entirely yours."

"Just as you please," said she; "although I should like, to keep every

thing just as it is, to remember you by; so please take only what you

can not do without. Yet, if I may be permitted to ask, what is it that

lies so near to your heart that you don't wish to give it to me?"

While she was speaking, the young man had opened the knapsack, and now

produced a small red morocco case. "Every thing that belongs to me, you

are welcome to," replied he, smiling; "but this belongs to my dear lady

godmother. I did the work on it myself, and must carry it to her with

my own hands. It is a piece of jewelry, gracious lady," continued he as

he opened the case and held it out to her, "an ornament that I myself

prepared."

She took the case, but hardly had she looked at the ornament when she

started back in surprise.

"Did you say that these stones were intended for your godmother?"

exclaimed she.

"Yes, to be sure," answered Felix; "my lady godmother sent me the

stones, I set them, and am now on the way to deliver them to her

myself."

The countess looked at him with deep emotion; the tears started from

her eyes. "Then you are Felix Perner of Nuremberg?" said she.

"Yes; but by what means did you find out my name so quickly?" asked the

youth, in great perplexity.

"O wonderful dispensation of heaven!" exclaimed she, turning to her

astonished husband. "This is Felix, our little godson, the son of our

maid, Sabine! Felix! I am the one whom you were on your way to see; and

you saved your godmother from the robbers without knowing it."

"What? Are you then the Countess Sandau, who did so much for me and my

mother? And is this the Castle Maienburg, to which I was bound! How

grateful I am to the kind fate that brought us together so strangely;

thus I have been able to prove indeed, even if in small measure, my

great thankfulness to you."

"You did more for me than I shall ever be able to do for you; still

while I live I shall try to show you how deeply indebted to you we all

feel. My husband shall be to you a father, my children shall be as

sisters, while I will be your true mother; and this ornament, that led

you to me in the hour of my greatest need, shall be my most precious

souvenir, for it will always remind me of you and of your noble

spirit."

Thus spake the countess; and well did she keep her word. She gave the

fortunate Felix abundant support on his wanderings, and when he

returned as a clever master of his art she bought a house for him in

Nuremberg and fitted it up completely. Not the least striking among the

appointments of his parlor were finely painted pictures, representing

the scenes in the inn, and Felix's life among the robbers.

There Felix lived as a clever goldsmith. The fame of his work, together

with the wonderful story of his heroism, brought him customers from all

parts of the realm. Many strangers, on coming to the beautiful city of

Nuremberg, found their way to the shop of the famous Master Felix, in

order to have a look at him, also to order an ornament made by him. But

his most welcome visitors were the forester, the compass-maker, the

student, and the wagoner. Whenever the latter travelled from Wuerzburg

to Fuerth, he stopped to speak with Felix. The huntsman brought him

presents from the countess nearly every year; while the compass-maker,

after wandering about in all lands, settled down with Felix.

One day they were visited by the student. He had grown to be an

important man in the country, but was not ashamed to drop in now and

then and take supper with Felix and the compass-maker. They lived over

again all the scenes in the forest inn, and the former student related

that he had seen the robber chief in Italy; he had improved very much

for the better, and served as a brave soldier under the King of Naples.

Felix was rejoiced to hear this. Without this man, it is true, he might

never have been placed in so dangerous a situation as in those days of

his captivity; but neither could he have escaped from the robber band

without his aid. And thus it was that the brave master goldsmith had

only peaceful and agreeable recollections of the _Inn in the Spessart_.