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Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume II

by M. Y. Halidom · English · Gutenberg #34817 · 558,782 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume II

Author: M. Y. Halidom

Illustrator: John Jellicoe
        Val R. Prince


        
Release date: January 2, 2011 [eBook #34817]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34817

Credits: E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)


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[Illustration]

[Illustration: TALES of the Wonder Club]


TALES OF THE WONDER CLUB.

by

DRYASDUST.

VOL. II.

[Decoration]

Illustrated by John Jellicoe and Val Prince,
After Designs by the Author.







Harrison & Sons, 59, Pall Mall.
Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.

All rights reserved.

London:
Printed By A. Hudson and Co.,
160 Wandsworth Road, S.W.




CONTENTS
                                                 Page
   CHAPTER I.                                          5
   Buried Alive.--The Landlord's Story.

   CHAPTER II.                                        61
   Der Scharfrichter.--The Artist's Second Story.

   CHAPTER III.                                      154
   The Three Pauls.--The Artist's Third Story.

   CHAPTER IV.                                       238
   The Waxen Image.--The Hostess's Story.

   CHAPTER V.                                        322
   In which occurs Mr. Parnassus' Ballad--The
   Chieftain's Destiny.

   CHAPTER VI.                                       338
   A Tale of the French Revolution.--The
   Barber's Story.



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                      PAGE

   ARTIST AND MODEL         _Frontispiece_

   PERSIAN GULF               _Title Page_

   BURIED ALIVE                          5

   EXECUTION                            61

   THE THREE PAULS                     154

   THE WAXEN IMAGE                     238

   CHIEFTAIN'S DESTINY                 322

   THE BASTILLE                        338




[Illustration]


CHAPTER I.

BURIED ALIVE.--THE LANDLORD'S STORY.


"Bravo, Oldstone! A very capital story!" cried several members at once.
"It is a pity our host isn't here to have heard it."

"I heard a good part of it, though, gentlemen," said a voice from a dark
corner of the room (for the lights had been extinguished, though it was
still murky without).

"What, are you there, Jack?" cried Mr. Crucible. "We none of us saw
you."

"Well, sir," said the landlord, "finding that I was not wanted outside
as I thought, I ventured to enter the room quietly, so as not to disturb
the story."

"Well done, Jack," said Hardcase, "and so you heard all, eh? Well, what
do you think of it?"

"Pretty nearly all, I guess, sir," replied the landlord, "and a curious
one it is, too, and no mistake. But talk of being buried alive, I could
tell you a queer adventure that happened to myself, if you gentlemen
would care to hear it."

"Only be too glad, Jack," said Oldstone. "Out with it; there is nothing
like a good story to beguile the time in weather like this."

Our host, thus encouraged, drew his chair close to the fire, and his
example was immediately followed by his guests. Then, refilling his yard
of clay and lighting it in the fire, he gave one or two preliminary
whiffs, and commenced his story thus:--

Well, gentlemen, when I was a youngster, that is to say, a lad of
nineteen, I fell deeply in love with my Molly, who, though I say it, was
the finest lass in the village and for miles round it. For all the world
like my Helen, at her age, bless her dear heart! She was the daughter of
a rich miller--his only child. Well, it had been a long attachment, for
Molly and I were play-mates when we was little, but when I grew to be
about nineteen, and my father began to see that I was head over ears in
love with Molly, he forbade me to see any more of her, because he and
old Sykes--leastways, Molly's father, the miller--wasn't friends, d'ye
see.

Nevertheless, Molly and I used to get a peep at each other on the sly
like, and often took long walks together when no one was near.

Well, old Sykes also objected to me keeping company with his daughter,
and sometimes suspecting what was up, used to lie in wait for us, and
catch us in the lane as we was coming home from our walk. Then he'd give
us both a "blowing up," for old Sykes wasn't partickler nice in his
language, and Molly was locked up in her room while he went to complain
of me to my father. This sort of thing occurred more than once, and
Sykes, not knowing how to put a stop to it in any other way, sent his
daughter on a visit to an aunt of hers some distance off.

I didn't know nothing of this for some time, and still went hovering
round the house, expecting to see Molly at the window. Now, there
happened to be at that time an epidemic running through the village, as
proved fatal to many, carrying off both the young and the old, and when
my father saw how pulled down I was in health and spirits, which was all
along of my not having seen Molly for many a week, he took it into his
head that I had caught the epidemic, and sent for a doctor. The doctor
came, felt my pulse, and looked at my tongue, and pronounced me very
bad, but said that he did not see the usual signs of the epidemic.

He ordered me, however, to be put to bed, and prescribed me some physic.
Instead of doing me any good, it only made me worse, for the doctor was
ignorant of the true cause of my low spirits. I was forced to keep in
bed, and could do nothing night or day but think of Molly. My father,
seeing me rapidly grow worse, but still ignorant of the cause--though he
knew that I had been very much cut up about Molly--began to take on
so--I being his only son--that the doctor was afraid that he would have
to take to his bed. Once, shortly after Molly's disappearance, he told
me that she had caught the epidemic and had died.

He hoped by this tale to bring me to my senses, and that I should soon
forget her, and begin courting some other girl, but it had a very
different effect upon me, and I rapidly sunk from worse to worse. When
the doctor called again, he found me in a dangerous state, and he came
to the conclusion that it must be the epidemic after all. Whether I
really had caught the epidemic in addition to my love-sickness I can't
tell. All I know is that I felt so bad that I didn't expect to live, and
even the doctor said it was all over with me.

My death was expected daily, and when one morning the doctor came and
found me stiff and cold, he gave out to my parents that I was dead. I
was no more dead than I am at the present moment. It is true that I
could not budge an inch, and I have no doubt that I looked thoroughly
dead, but my mind was as clear and as sharp as possible.

"Poor young man," I heard the doctor say. "So hale and strong, too.
Who'd have thought it?"

"Oh, my poor son! my poor son!" wept my father. "You whom I thought to
rear to be the prop of my old age, now you are torn from me for ever."

"Calm yourself, sir," said the doctor, "else you will make yourself
ill."

"How can I calm myself?" cried my father, in agony. "Was he not my
_only_ son? and I--I--fool, wretch, that I was--_I_ killed him!"

"_You_ killed him!" cried the doctor. "How? Surely you rave, sir."

"Yes," persisted my father; "the poor boy was in love with a maid whose
father is my enemy. I objected to his marrying her, as did also the
girl's father, who wishing to save his daughter from my son sent her
away to live at the house of an aunt in the village of H---- in
----shire. As my son knew nothing of this, I told him, thinking to make
him forget her, that the maid was dead, but the poor boy took on so
dreadful about it, that it has been his death, and I--yes I am his
murderer!" and I thought his sobs would choke him.

"It was very wrong and foolish of you," said the doctor, "to tell him
so, when you saw him so weak and ailing, yet you did it with a good
intent, and I do not see that you can justly accuse yourself of being
his murderer."

"Yes, yes," sobbed my father, bitterly, "I have killed him--my son, my
_only_ son!"

Now I had discovered a secret. Molly was not dead, but living at her
aunt's. I knew her address; if I could but be restored to life, I might
see her once again. I longed to be able to call out: "Father, I am not
dead--comfort yourself," but my tongue refused utterance. I tried to
move my limbs, and did all that was in my power to show signs of life,
but I still lay powerless--paralysed, for I was in a trance. Oh! the
agony I suffered! How long would it last? Should I be really nailed up
in a coffin and buried alive? Oh, horror!

Some of my friends the neighbours were called in to see me and mourned
over my corpse.

"Poor Jack!" one of them said; "if lads of his kidney are not proof
against the epidemic, who may hope to escape?"

The next day an undertaker was sent for to measure me for my coffin.

"Where will all this end?" thought I. "Shall I awake before the coffin
is made?"

This was my only hope; but if not, all was lost. Once nailed down,
nailed down for ever. The thought was agony.

Here I was, struck down in the flower of my youth, to all appearances
dead, yet with my mind keenly alive to all that was going on around me.
Oh, that I could become insensible! I knew not how long this dreadful
trance would last; all I knew was that if it lasted more than a day or
two longer it would be all up with me. I was laid out in state, and all
that day and the next friends poured in to gaze upon my corpse.

As the time grew nearer for my funeral the more despairing I got. At
length the coffin arrived. I shuddered. Had my last moment actually
come? What could I do? Nothing.

"Oh, Heaven!" I cried within myself, "for what fell crime am I doomed to
bear this agony of soul?"

Two undertakers now lifted me from my bed, one of them seizing me by the
shoulders, the other by the feet, and I felt myself placed within a
leaden coffin supported upon trestles. I did my utmost now to make one
last desperate effort to rouse myself out of my trance, but in vain.

"Oh, if they should nail me up!" I thought.

Then I was left alone all day, and remember a great bustle and
whispering going on in the house. All were talking of my funeral. At
length the fatal hour arrived! The undertakers entered my room again.
Good Heavens! they were actually going to solder me down. The next
instant the leaden lid was down upon me, and I was soon tightly secured.
Then commenced the knocking in of the nails of the outer coffin. How
painfully distinct was the sound of the hammer! I remember counting each
nail as it was driven in. At length the task was completed, and I only
awaited the hearse to carry me to my last home.

Then there was more bustle, the meeting of friends, etc., when after
waiting a little longer, I heard the footsteps of the bearers. I felt
myself lifted upon the shoulders of the men and carried downstairs. A
crowd had evidently collected round the door, for I heard the muffled
sound of voices gossipping, but could not distinguish what they said.
Only the tolling of the church bell jarred upon my ears. Then the
procession began. How slowly it moved along!

"Oh! if I could even now awake!" thought I, "it might not be too late.
If I could make sufficient movement with my limbs to overturn the
coffin, or even had strength to call out, I should even now be saved."

But all in vain--rigid, motionless as ever, in spite of my earnest
prayers to be restored to life. I felt myself borne leisurely
on--whither? Oh, horror! to the cold and narrow grave--to the abode of
the dead. My last hope died within me when I felt the procession stop,
and I knew that it was already arrived at the cemetery. I remember
hearing faintly the tones of the parson's voice as he read the ceremony
for the burial of the dead. The coffin was now lowered into the grave,
and I heard with awful distinctness the words "earth to earth, ashes to
ashes, dust to dust," followed by the rattling of the three handfuls of
earth upon my coffin lid. My last hope was now gone. In another moment I
should be covered up with mould and left alone to die miserably.

"Oh!" groaned I, in spirit, "it is all over with me!" as I heard the
mould tumbling heavily upon me.

I knew that the grave was now covered up, for the voices of my friends
were quite inaudible, and all was silent.

What a terrible feeling of isolation was mine! Cut off completely from
the rest of the world by some feet of earth, alive, yet supposed to be
dead, deserted by friends and doomed at length to awaken only to suffer
a death of all deaths most horrible! Had I still believed Molly to be
dead, it would have been some consolation to me to die; nay, how gladly
would I have welcomed death that I might meet her in a better land. But,
alas, I knew that Molly still lived, and after death I should be further
away from her than ever. This thought was agony to me. One thing,
however, somewhat consoled me, though it was but poor consolation.

"We must all die," I thought.

Molly must die, too. It might be years before she left this earth,
still I should see her again sooner or later. But then came another,
thought which, do all I could, I was unable to banish from my mind. In
the meantime Molly might marry someone else, and rear up a large family
of children, and what could I be to her then if I ever chanced to meet
her in the other world? If ever human soul knew agony, mine knew it
then. I longed for no eternity without Molly, and I remember praying
that my spirit might be utterly annihilated and become as insensible as
the clay that I was about to leave behind me. It was a dreadful and an
impious prayer, but when during life, one dear idol has monopolised the
heart and there reigns supreme, even the fear of eternal damnation is
insufficient to drive it from its throne.

"Oh, that I could die quickly and be at rest for ever!"

Then I prayed fervently a long, heartfelt, earnest prayer, after which I
felt more calm, more resigned to my fate. I had no hopes of being
rescued and being brought back to life--that hope had quite left me. I
now only wished for a speedy and peaceful death. Many weary hours I lay
on my back within my narrow prison--rigid--immovable--a living soul
amongst the dead. The silence that reigned around was intense, almost
inconceivable to those accustomed to the busy world without.

I missed the rustling of the leaves, the chirping of the birds, the
distant lowing of cattle, the hum of human voices, every sound of life;
all was still, for it was _the silence of the grave_. The only sound at
all audible, and that was so indistinct and muffled from the pile of
earth that covered me that, had my sense of hearing not been excited to
an abnormal pitch, I should not have heard it, and that was the sound of
the church clock as it struck the hour. I had been buried in the morning
at about ten o'clock, and I remember counting the hours until ten
o'clock at night. Every hour appeared to me a century, until, exhausted
with the agony of mind I had endured, I fell asleep and dreamed of
Molly. I thought that I was by her side walking under the trees in a
part of the country that I had never seen before.

There was a house at some distance, which she said belonged to her aunt.
I was telling her all about how I came to be buried alive, and she was
listening to me and looking up in my face with tearful eyes, for she had
heard that I was dead. I also dreamed that I saw a serpent moving in the
grass at her feet. I sprang up and beat it severely with my cane. At
first it attempted to defend itself, but at length it escaped from me
severely bruised.

The dream then changed from one subject to another, but Molly was by my
side throughout. It was exceedingly vivid, and I doubted not at the time
but that I was by her side in reality.

I know not how long I had been asleep when I heard a confused noise
while still in a dreaming state, and I awoke to find myself once more in
my coffin.

"Oh, why was not this dream allowed to last?" I groaned to myself, and
tried to fall asleep again, hoping to take up the thread of my dream at
the point that I had lost it, but in vain, for now I heard the same
noise in reality over my head. It was the sound of men's voices. Who
could they be? Was I still dreaming? No!

They were the resurrectionists, or the "body-snatchers," as we generally
call them. They had come to rob my body in order to sell it to some
doctor. How my heart beat for joy!

"I shall be saved! I shall be saved!" said I to myself.

"O merciful God!" I prayed in spirit, "who scornest not to make the
meanest of thy creatures thine instruments, I thank Thee for having
heard my prayers and delivered me from this fearful death. I am unworthy
of all thy mercies, O God! Perform thy miracles on men more worthy."

The body-snatchers had now shovelled all the earth away that covered me,
and they began to lift the coffin out of the grave. Had it been my
friend's coffin instead of my own, I should have stigmatised the men who
attempted to disinter his body as thieves, robbers, a set of midnight
marauders; but in the present instance I blessed them as my deliverers,
as my brothers. My heart yearned towards them, for my hopes began to
revive.

It would be discovered that I was not dead, at least, I hoped so, and
when my trance should pass off I should be able to find some way of
seeing Molly again. The next moment the outer coffin was wrenched open;
then they proceeded to force the leaden one. This was soon done, and I
now felt the chill night air. To lift me out, thrust me headfirst into a
sack, and shovel the earth into the grave again, was the work of a
moment, and I now felt myself laid across the shoulder of one of the
men, and carried off.

"Where was I bound for?" I asked myself.

The men began talking together, so I resolved to listen--to learn, if
possible, what they were going to do with me.

"A fine corpse, Bill," said one body-snatcher to the other.

"Aye, my word," replied Bill, "but what a weight he be!"

"Ah! I dare say; these youngsters are so full of blood and muscle," said
the other.

"Tell you what it is, Tom," said my bearer, "you must lend me a hand or
I shall never bring him safely to the doctor's to-night. Here, just take
him on your shoulders a bit!"

I then felt myself transferred from the shoulders of Bill to those of
Tom.

"Begad! you're right," said the latter. "He be a load, sure_ly_."

"Well," said Bill, "the doctor has got the full worth of his money, and
no mistake. For less than ten guineas I wouldn't have undertaken the
task on such a night as this. Hark! how the wind howls. My teeth chatter
in spite of myself. Poor Jack! Many's the good draught of malt he has
drawn for me in his father's tap-room!"

"Peace, you fool!" cried Tom; "don't talk so loud, or the thing will get
wind in the village, and we shall get torn to pieces. Hush! there is
someone behind the hedge."

Then they walked on in silence for some time, and on the way I was once
more hoisted on to the shoulders of Bill.

"Oh, you beggar, what a weight you be!" said Bill, addressing me. "Well,
we're paid for it, so I suppose I must carry you," and off we trudged
again.

"This is the way to Dr. Slasher's house," said Tom. "I see a light in
the windows; he is awaiting us."

"Well," said Bill, "we've been pretty punctual. It is not much past
twelve o'clock. Here we are at last."

The two men stopped, and one threw some earth against the doctor's
window. The next moment I heard footsteps within, and the door was
opened noiselessly.

"Hush!" said the doctor's voice.

The two men entered the house, when I was taken out of my sack and
deposited upon a table in the doctor's study. It was the same doctor who
had attended me during my illness.

"Fine specimen, sir," said Bill, "and tough work enough we've had to
get him, neither; the ground's as hard as a brick-bat."

"Ah!" said the doctor, abstractedly, feeling me all over.

"Yes, sir," said the other; "and how heavy he be too!"

"Humph!" said the doctor.

"It is a bitter cold night," said Bill. "The wind howled among the trees
while we was at work enough to make one's blood curdle."

"Ha!" said the doctor; "I know what that means. A glass of grog wouldn't
be unacceptable, unless I mistake."

"Well, sir, you've just guessed about right," said Bill. "A glass of
grog now and then, just to keep out the cold is a very fine thing, as
you, being a doctor, sir, I've no doubt are well aware."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the doctor. "I perceive you understand the theory of
the circulation of the blood. Well, as you have done your work well,
I'll just put the kettle on the hob, and you shall have a good stiff
glass apiece."

"That's the sort of thing, eh, Tom? The doctor is a real gentleman, and
no mistake."

Tom acquiesced, and soon the doctor produced a tall bottle of brandy,
and more than half filling two tumblers, and popping a couple of lumps
of sugar into each glass, he lifted the kettle from the hob and filled
them up to the brim. Then, stirring up the sugar at the bottom with the
handle of his dissecting knife, he handed a glass to each of his
creatures across my body.

"Here's luck, sir," said one of them, nodding.

"I looks towards you, sir," said the other, sipping his grog.

"Thanks, my man, thanks," said the doctor.

"A----h!" gasped Bill, after a deep draught, and smacking his lips,
"this is something like a glass of grog. I feel myself again. I'd as
lief set out again after another subject to-night as not."

"Well, mate," said Tom, draining his glass, "I guess we'd better
toddle."

The doctor then counted out twenty guineas, and gave the men ten apiece.

"Thank ye kindly, sir," said they, "and when again you be in want of our
services, your honour knows where to find us. Good-night, sir."

"Good-night," responded the doctor, as he showed them out and closed the
door.

I was left alone for a moment, but when he returned he might begin
dissecting me at once, and that would be horrible, for I was still in my
trance. I hoped he would defer operations until the morrow. In the
meantime I hoped to come to. Then I heard the doctor's footsteps in the
passage, and here he was again. Would he really cut me up before I could
call out or defend myself? Good Heavens! What was he about now? He had
tucked up his shirt sleeves and seized his dissecting-knife!

All was lost. My hopes had been raised only to be dashed to the ground.
My last hour had come. Already I felt the point of the murderous
instrument against my chest. Rip!--an incision had been made!

"Hullo!" cried the doctor, dropping his dissecting-knife. "What is this?
Why the man's not dead!"

The fact was, I was gradually recovering, and my blood had already begun
to flow. The intense mental agony I had endured had caused a cold sweat
to break out on my forehead. The incision luckily was not very deep, but
I bear the mark of the wound to this day.

The doctor staunched the blood with his handkerchief, muttering to
himself, "And have I been obliged to pay twenty guineas for a living
subject? Humph! I've a good mind to cut him up all the same, no one
would be any the wiser for it."

I began to fear lest he might do so in real earnest; however, he bound
up my wound and carried me into his own bedroom, where he placed me on a
mattress on the ground. He wiped the perspiration from my forehead and
felt my pulse.

"He'll come round," he muttered to himself; "already he shows signs of
life. I would not for the world, though, that this got known in the
village. I should lose all my practice, and yet I don't know how to keep
the matter quiet, it _must_ ooze out."

Life was rapidly returning. I began to open and shut my eyes and to
breathe, though with some difficulty. By degrees, however, I managed to
breathe more freely.

"Ah, ha!" said the doctor, noticing the rapid change, "getting all
right, now--eh?"

I remained in the same state for about an hour more, when the doctor
began undressing and preparing to turn in for the night. In another
moment he was between the sheets and snoring loudly. Soon after I fell
asleep myself.

The following morning on awaking, I felt almost myself again. I could
move my limbs and sit up in bed, though I still felt very weak.

"Well, how are we now?" asked the doctor, seeing that I moved with
comparative ease. "A nice trick you've played me. Do you know that you
have done me out of twenty guineas--by coming to life again--eh? I hoped
to have cut you all up by this time--and I might have done so, too,
easily enough at the time, but I suppose if I were to try it on now
you'd halloa."

Then he began to ask me all sorts of questions, to which I answered
feebly. In reply to a question of his as to whether I felt hungry, I
nodded my head, and the doctor went to prepare me a cup of broth. When
he returned and I had partaken of it, new strength came back to me, and
I was able to relate to him all my sufferings while he listened
attentively. Well, day after day I improved in health under the doctor's
care, till I at length completely recovered. One morning after I was up
and dressed, and breakfasting with the doctor (N.B.--Nobody, not even
the doctor's servant, knew anything about either the removal of my body
from the grave or of my coming to life again, for the doctor took good
care to keep me locked up for a time in his bedchamber.) Well,
breakfasting one morning with the doctor, I noticed that he looked
rather thoughtful and confused.

"Now, I'll tell you what your thoughts are, doctor," said I, "and you
see if I haven't guessed right."

"Well," said he, somewhat surlily.

"You are afraid that the affair about digging up my body may get known,
and will damage your reputation, and you do not know how to keep it
secret. Is it not so?" I asked.

"Well, sir," said he, "you've just guessed about right, but what is to
be done?"

"Listen to me," said I. "I have a plan."

"Indeed!" said he, opening his eyes.

"Yes, a plan to kill two birds with one stone," I said. "It is to your
interest that this affair should not be known--eh? Well, it is to my
interest, too. All will go well if you do as I propose."

"What is that?" asked he, with eagerness.

"First you must lend me a complete disguise, consisting of one of your
old wigs, a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, and one of your suits of
clothes. Secondly, you must lend me a certain sum of money to keep me
for, say, a fortnight. I'll pay you back in due time, when my plan has
succeeded. You needn't be afraid. You can trust Jack Hearty--eh?"

"Yes, certainly," said he, with some hesitation. "But how? I don't
understand."

"Never mind that," said I; "you will know all in good time."

"Well, Jack," said he, "I know you for a sharp fellow and an honest--so
I will trust you. I don't know what your scheme is; but if it fail, and
the worst comes to the worst, why I can but be exposed, and there is an
end of it."

"Well said, doctor," said I; "now let us commence to put the scheme into
practice."

He then took from his wardrobe rather a threadbare suit of black
clothes, which I immediately donned. Then I tried on an old powdered wig
with a pigtail and a pair of lace ruffles, next a pair of tortoiseshell
spectacles with glasses as big as a crown piece. I next corked my
eyebrows, slightly stained the tip of my nose with red and made a few
false wrinkles in my forehead. The doctor placed a gold-headed cane in
my hand and a large signet ring on my forefinger. I then took a book
under my arm, and at parting the doctor gave me a purse of gold to put
in my pocket, and off I started. The doctor laughed immoderately at my
successful disguise, and I heard him say as I was leaving the house, "I
don't know what he means to be up to, but some devilry, _I'll_ lay a
farthing."

Well, gentlemen, the next thing I did was to walk straight off to catch
the stage, which would pass by the village of H----, where Molly was
staying with her aunt. I remember I had to run for it, and pretty hard,
too, but I caught it up. Tearing along as fast as my legs could carry
me, I passed by a group of villagers, some of my friends amongst them,
and I heard the following remarks:

"Here comes the doctor, running for his life!"--"Go it doctor, you'll
catch it up!"--"My eyes, don't he run!--who'd have thought the old boy
had so much life in him?"

"It ain't the doctor, though; it's another man. I don't know him, Jim,
do you? I wonder how long he has been in the village. I never see him
before."

As I was stepping into the coach I heard a voice behind me say, "I
thought it was Dr. Slasher, Bill, didn't you?"

"Yes, at first," said another; "he's like him--leastways the clothes
is."

"By the way," said the first, "I wonder when the doctor will be ready
for another subject. I suppose poor Jack's cut up long since."

"Hush! you fool," said the other.

By this time I had taken my seat in the coach, and looking in the
direction of the voices, I recognised my friends of the other night, Tom
and Bill. Off we then started. The coach was full of men I knew as well
as my own father, most of them my customers. I appeared absorbed in my
book, so as not to get entangled in conversation with anyone, for fear
that my voice might betray me.

Two men, who appeared to be strangers to each other, began entering into
conversation.

"Dreadful business this epidemic, sir," said the younger of the two to
the elder.

"Yes, it is indeed," replied the elder; "the young fare the same as the
old, they say, but I am a stranger in the place."

"Oh, indeed, sir," said the first speaker; and then added, "Yes,
sir--that's true enough--the young die as soon as the old. Hardly a week
ago died young Jack Hearty, son of old Hearty, as keeps the Headless
Lady--a lad of nineteen, and as hale a young fellow as ever you'd find
in a day's march. He was taken suddenly ill, and died in a very few
days.

"Poor young fellow! who'd have thought that he would have gone along
with the rest? He was an only son, too, and they say his father is
devilish down in the mouth about it."

"Dear me! dreadful, to be sure," replied the elder.

The conversation then changed to various topics, and became general, the
only one not joining in it being myself. I still pored over my book,
appearing not to take an interest in anything that was being said,
although my ears were open to catch every word.

"Who's that cove?" I heard one say to his neighbour.

"Oi doan't knaw, Oi'm sure," replied the one addressed, being a lusty
farmer. "Oi never see'd un in these parts afore--looks loike a doctor."

"Why don't he speak?" said the other. "He won't talk to no one."

"Maybe un's too proud," said the former.

"I'd like to kick the surly devil," said his companion.

"What'll you bet Oi doan't make un speak?" said the countryman.

"Bet you a halfpenny you don't get a word out of him," said the first
speaker.

"Done," said the farmer, and turning suddenly upon me, accosted me
thus:--

"Oi zay, governor, you bes a doctor, b'aint ye?"

I drew myself up with an air of dignity, and said with a frown, and in a
feigned voice: "Did you address _me_, sir?"

"Ees," said the bumpkin, unawed by my assumption of dignity; "and Oi
axes ye if ye b'aint a doctor."

"Well, sir," I said; "and if I am!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed coarsely. "Oi knowed ye was. Oi thought Oi
knowed the breed. Vell, you doctors has made a pretty harvest of late,
Oi reckon," said the farmer, bluntly.

"How so, sir," I asked. "I do not understand you."

"Vhy, vith the patients as has died in this here hepidemic," said he.
"They must have brought grist to your mill, if Oi'm not mistook."

"What epidemic?" I asked, feigning surprise. "I am a stranger in these
parts, and know nothing of the epidemic."

"Vhy, ye doan't mane to zay that ye never heard of th' epidemic as all
th' vorld is a talking of," said he.

"All the world!" I cried, in astonishment. "All your little village, I
suppose you mean--no, I am entirely ignorant of this malady."

"Vell then, doctor," said the boor, "if ye'd only set up in our village,
there's a snug little business going on for the loikes of you."

"Humph!" I grunted, not deigning to make other reply.

"Yes, indeed, sir," said a man in the opposite corner of the coach,
joining in the conversation, but more respectfully than my friend the
farmer. "I assure you that a doctor's services are very much needed in
these parts. They say the malady is spreading."

The last speaker was a man I knew as well as I know my own face in a
looking-glass, and whom I had served to innumerable pints of our
home-brewed ale--a crony of mine, in fact, yet he failed to see through
my disguise.

"Dear me!" said I. "I hope it will be nothing very serious. I regret not
being able to make myself useful, as I have several important cases to
attend to a long distance off."

"Oh, it has been very bad indeed, sir, hereabouts," said the same man.
"Most cases have been fatal. The death that has been most talked of in
the village is that of poor Jack Hearty, a lad of nineteen, as strong
and as good looking a young fellow as any in the village. He was took
bad, as it might be, yesterday, and struck down to-day in the very
flower of his youth."

"You don't say so?" said I.

"Yes, sir," he resumed; "and I'll be bound to say you wouldn't find a
finer young fellow in all England."

"Really!" said I, inwardly feeling flattered.

"Ah!" said another, with a sly wink. "I think I could tell you what
hastened Jack's death as much as anything."

"What was that?" I asked.

"There was a young woman in the case, they say," said the man, whom I
also knew intimately.

"Well, sir," said I, with a well-feigned innocence; "and this young
woman----?"

"Well, I believe he died pining for her, and folks say as how it was the
hepidemic."

"Ah!" I said with a sigh. "That is an epidemic we all catch some time or
other, but most folks get over it, I fancy."

"Well, yes," said the man; "most folks, as you say, do, but poor Jack
was very hard hit indeed, sir. I happen to know the young woman, too--as
fine a wench as you'll meet with in the whole kingdom."

"Ah! indeed," I said. "They would have been well matched then, had they
married?"

"They would indeed, sir," was the reply. "They'd have made a pair as you
wouldn't meet every day. Well, well," he sighed; "he's gone now, poor
fellow, so the wench must look out for someone else."

"Did the girl take it much to heart, think you?" said I.

"Aye, I'll warrant she did, sir," said he, "though I can't say for
certain, seeing as how her father sent her away from home to get her out
of Jack's way. But she'll have heard all about it by this time. Poor
girl! I am sorry for her. She'll have to wait a long time before she
finds another like Jack."

"Perhaps she may never marry," I suggested; "that is if she really loved
him."

"Can't say I'm sure, sir. You see the maid is quite young yet, and has
got lots of admirers; what with one and what with another, she may in
time forget Jack and take to someone else," said my friend.

"You have heard no rumours as yet, I suppose, of her showing any
partiality towards anyone," I demanded, timidly.

"No, sir, I can't say that exactly, but then it is so shortly after
Jack's death, that it isn't likely she would just yet. Still there's a
young fellow, the son of a squire, as is very sweet upon her, and is
always following of her about. If she could manage to catch him, she'd
do well, but the young gent's father don't approve of it, and is like to
cut him off to a shilling if he marries her. Folks say that the young
squire is a bit of a scamp, and don't mean marriage. It'll be a pity if
the maid goes wrong, for she is a good girl, and no mistake."

Now this was gall and wormwood to me. I knew that that rascal young
Rashly had been hovering about Molly's house for some time. He had often
crossed me in my walks with Molly, and we hated each other like poison,
but I also knew that Molly couldn't bear the sight of him, for she was
really and truly in love with me, yet the very mention of his name
coupled with hers made my blood boil. Mastering my emotion, however, I
asked with as much apparent indifference as possible, "And this young
gentleman, where is he now?"

"Oh, up to his larks, I'll warrant," said the man, with a laugh. "The
girl's father has sent her away to live with her aunt, to get her out of
Jack's way, as he is not friends with Jack's father, and I guess out of
the way of the young squire, too; but young Rashly has been absent now
some time from the village, and I'll be bound he has found her out by
this time. Now that poor Jack's dead he'll have the way all clear before
him."

"The devil take him," I muttered to myself. I was bursting with rage,
and to conceal my emotion, I affected to stare out of the window at some
object, while my heart beat underneath my borrowed waistcoat, and must
have been audible but for the coach wheels. I appeared again absorbed in
my book while the rest of the passengers discoursed upon general topics.

"Give us the halfpenny," I heard my bluff fellow-traveller say to his
friend; "it's been fairly von." His friend's hand was buried for an
instant, and the coin was transferred from his to the farmer's breeches
pocket.

"That's zum business, onyrate," said the countryman, receiving the
payment of the bet with a chuckle.

The stage then rolled on for some distance further, till some passenger
called out:

"There is H----, any passenger for H----?"

"Yes, sir," said I; "I am for H----."

The stage stopped, and with trembling hands and beating heart I squeezed
past the other passengers.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said I, as I walked off.

The stage was set in motion again. There was no other passenger but
myself for the village of H----, so I strolled off with light step to
the nearest inn.

Having refreshed myself with a light luncheon, I strolled about the
country a bit until I came across--you may be surprised, gentlemen--but
I actually came across the very same house with the very identical
country round about it, including the wood, that appeared in my dream. I
certainly _was_ startled.

"Yonder, then, is the house of Molly's aunt," I thought, and I walked
towards it, thinking all the while how I should introduce myself.

Before I reached the house, however, two figures in the distance under
the trees of the wood attracted my gaze. I looked again. One of the
figures, I was sure, could be no other than Molly herself, and the other
I was equally certain was young Rashly.

I hastened my steps, but by a route so as not to come directly in front
of them, for I wished to overhear their conversation. Having made a
roundabout cut, I concealed myself behind some brushwood, where I could
both see them distinctly, and hear all they said without being seen by
them.

"Come, Molly," I heard young Rashly say, "enough of this. What is the
good of making yourself miserable about young Hearty? He's dead now,
poor fellow--he was a great friend of mine, but now that he is gone and
can never come back to you, try to forget him. I wish to console you and
to raise your spirits. Now, my dear girl, do try and forget him."

"Oh, never, never!" sobbed Molly, "I never _can_ forget him. I shall
never be able to love anyone else. Poor fellow! He died out of love for
me, I know he did. Oh, Jack, Jack, I never can forget you--never,
never!" and she sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Now, Molly, this is nothing but obstinacy; you can't call him back,
however you may mourn for him. Just look at the position _I_ offer you.
_I_ shall be able to make you more comfortable than Jack would have been
able to make you. Is it nothing to be made a lady of? Don't be a fool,
girl, and throw such a chance away. Hundreds in your place would jump at
it."

"How can I accept such terms from a man I do not love?" cried Molly.
"Would I not be one of the basest of women to persuade you that I loved
you just to become your wife, when my heart is another's?"

"How can your heart be another's when Jack is no more?" asked he.

"Yes, yes; in death my heart shall still be his," Molly cried.

"Come, now, you're talking like a mad girl. Just listen to reason a bit.
I will settle a good round sum a year upon you to keep you as a lady in
a nice little cottage with a garden, where I shall always be able to
come to pay you a visit in secret, when my father is out of the way."

"Then you never from the first intended to _marry_ me," interrupted
Molly, "you only--only--wanted to----"

"Why, actually _marry_ you, no; I never intended that. _That_ would be
impossible, but----"

"Exactly; I understand you," answered Molly, proudly, "but I scorn your
base proposals. If you were to lay the wealth of the universe at my
feet, I would never barter my good name. So _this_ is what you have been
trying at all this time, to make me your minion.

"When first you visited me, you gave me to understand that your
intentions were honourable, and though I loved you not, and never could,
yet I respected you and felt compassion for you and tried to think of
you as a friend. Now I neither pity nor respect you, but _despise_ you.
Go, sir, and never dare to speak to me again!"

"What a trump of a girl!" I muttered to myself.

"Molly! Molly!" cried Rashly, starting backward in amazement, "are you
mad?"

"I should be mad to accept your proposals," replied Molly, calmly, but
firmly. "Go, sir--all friendship between us is at an end."

"My dear Molly," began Rashly, "I beg of you, I entreat you to calm
yourself--to take a more reasonable view of the matter. Come, let me
persuade you, dear," said he, advancing and attempting to put his arm
round her waist, but he was instantly repulsed.

He essayed again.

"Dare to touch me once more, sir, and I'll scream--I'll rouse the
neighbourhood and expose you."

"Hush, hush!" said Rashly, nothing daunted, "be reasonable, there's a
good girl, I'll do you no harm," and he ventured to touch her again.

"Back, sir, I say!" and she lifted up her voice to scream, but instantly
his hand was on her mouth.

I could endure it no longer, but bursting from my hiding-place, and
grasping firmly my gold-headed cane, I sprang to the spot.

"Who are you, sir?" I cried, boiling with rage, "that dare offer to
insult my niece? Begone! or it will be the worse for you."

Both started, and Rashly turned livid and trembled.

"I thank you, sir," said Molly, "for interfering."

Then thrusting Rashly aside, I cried; "Molly! I am your uncle, do you
not know me?" trying to disguise my voice all the while, which was
rather a difficult matter, boiling with passion as I was then.

"I do not know you, sir, though I believe your intentions to be good,"
said Molly.

Then seizing Molly by the hand, I whispered in her ear; "Silence!--not
a word--I am Jack risen from the grave."

A piercing shriek, and Molly fell fainting against a tree.

"Who are you, you vagabond?" cried Rashly, now for the first time
recovering from his surprise. "She does not know you. What have you been
saying to the poor girl to frighten her so? You are an impostor, sir. Be
off and mind your own business!"

"Impostor! eh?--vagabond, eh? I'll show you who is a vagabond, you
scoundrel!" said I, and lifting my cane, I laid it about him with all my
might and main like a cavalryman cutting down his foe.

Rashly at first attempted to defend himself, and flew at me like a
tiger; he tried to snatch the cane from my hand, but I hit him so
severely across the knuckles that I made him howl out in spite of
himself. I cut him right and left over head, shoulders, arms and legs,
hacking and slashing with the force of an infuriated madman,
accompanying each blow with such epithets as "scoundrel," "blackguard,"
till he burst out in a piteous cry and took refuge in flight. He never
troubled Molly again.

The doctor's gold-headed cane had been broken with the force of the
blows I had dealt my rival, for which afterwards I had to pay, but to
return to Molly. She gradually recovered her senses, and gazed at me
wonderingly and full of fear.

"Be calm, Molly," I said in my natural voice, "it is I--Jack, risen
from the grave, but still in the flesh and no spirit." Then taking off
my spectacles and wig, I said, "Molly, do you not recognise these eyes
and these locks, in spite of the rest of my disguise?"

She still looked fearful and distrustingly at me, but at length
convinced that it was myself--and no one else--by my voice, she flew to
my arms crying, "Oh, Jack, Jack!--is it really you?"

Of course, she wanted an instant explanation of my resurrection, which I
by degrees gave; and having given it, I began to unfold to her my plan,
thus.

"Molly," I said, "what I have told you and am about to tell you now must
remain a secret between ourselves, otherwise my plan will fail. Well
then, in the first place you must get me acquainted with your aunt, and
give out that I am an elderly gentleman you have known some time, and
that you have met me quite unexpectedly here. You must invite me to call
at the house. I shall adopt the name of Dr. Crow. You must feign illness
and send for me. Thus we shall be able to see a good deal of each other.
I will also persuade your aunt that she is ill, so that we shall see
still more of each other. I'll worm myself into her good graces and
after about a fortnight or so, I shall ask your aunt's consent to our
marriage. I shall tell her that I am a doctor in good practice, and
shall be able to keep you well, and when I once get the right side of
her, I doubt not that I shall obtain her consent. She will then write to
your father, who will hardly say anything against a match so
advantageous, although our ages may be apparently unequal.

"It is not likely that he will trouble himself to come down here to have
a look at me, as he is at present laid up with the gout. He will in all
probability write his consent. That once obtained, I shall make all
necessary preparations for the marriage, and as for obtaining my
father's consent--leave that to me."

"Oh, but, Jack! if your plan should fail--if your disguise should be
seen through," began Molly.

"Leave all to me," said I. "So far I have been successful, for I have
not been recognised yet. Fortune seems on my side. You must aid me in
every possible way to carry out my plan."

"I will, Jack!" said she.

"Well, then," said I, "you must go home now to your aunt, and say you
have met an old friend of yours quite by chance here--a certain Dr.
Crow. Say also that I should like to call and make her acquaintance.
Meet me again to-morrow in the wood, and invite me to the house. In
time, I've no doubt, all will go well."

Molly promised to follow my instructions, and we parted.

It was then late in the afternoon, so I returned to my inn. There I
found a snug little parlour, with a bookcase, so I beguiled the time as
well as I could by reading until the clock struck the dinner hour. After
a comfortable meal, I smoked a pipe of tobacco, strolled about the
streets a little in the twilight, and turned into bed.

Next morning, after breakfast, I strolled out again into the wood. I
walked about for an hour, perhaps, without meeting anyone, casting
anxious glances all the while towards the house where Molly lived.

At length she made her appearance; not alone this time, but with another
female. This must be the aunt, I thought--so much the better. Feeling
the necessity of an excuse for hovering about so near the house, I
feigned to be gathering wild flowers.

"Oh, aunt!" I heard Molly say as she came up, "here is Dr. Crow, the
gentleman that I spoke to you about yesterday."

"Ah, Miss Sykes!" said I, lifting my hat in the most polite manner, "I
hope I see you well this morning."

Molly gave me her hand, and introduced me to her aunt, who curtseyed and
smiled.

I said that I had come down here for a change of air, and that I was
amusing myself with botanising.

"Oh, indeed!" said the aunt. "So that is your hobby, is it, Dr.
Crow--well, and a very delightful one, too. I am very fond of flowers
myself, and only wish I knew more about them. I do envy you scientific
men. You always seem so happy and contented."

"Well, madam," said I, "there is nothing like having a hobby in life. It
fills up many a weary hour and makes us forget the din and the bustle of
the busy world around us. For my part, when I have no patients to attend
to, I am always occupied in some way or other."

"Dear me," said the aunt. "How very delightful!"

We walked on together, conversing agreeably as we went, and afterwards I
was invited into the house. Need I say that I praised to the utmost the
good taste of everything I saw there, her paperhangings, her worsted
work, her crochet, etc. I was then shown some specimens of ferns and
wild flowers that she had dried in a book, and she begged of me to write
their classical names under them.

This was indeed a trial, as I had never learnt a single word of Latin,
but it would not do to back out, so I exerted all my ingenuity to invent
some crackjaw names. Among the rest I remember inscribing the words
"_Rodus sidus_," "_Stenchius obnoxious_," and "_Herbus unnonus_." These
names delighted Molly's aunt immensely, who believed she was already a
Latin scholar. I found my way so well into the aunt's good graces that I
was invited to call whenever I liked, and frequently asked to dinner.

As I did not like to call every day, for fear it should look bad, either
Molly or Molly's aunt managed to feel unwell on the days that I did not
call, and they found it necessary to send for me, so it came to much the
same thing, as I saw Molly every day. Molly's aunt was one of that class
of females who are always imagining that something or other is the
matter with them. I soon saw, therefore, that to get thoroughly into her
good graces, I must humour her in her whims.

Accordingly, I made out that she had this, that, or the other--indeed,
I forget what it was exactly that I said ailed her--and promised to
bring her some physic. This quite won her heart, so I at once set about
making some liquorice water, endeavouring to disguise the taste of the
liquorice as much as possible by adding salt, pepper, a little soap,
some tobacco, and other nauseous ingredients. I wonder the mess didn't
poison her, but so far from causing ill-effects, she informed me that it
had really done her good.

Whether the good it had done her only lay in her imagination or whether
the strange compound really did possess a medicinal property I cannot
tell (I can hardly think the latter), but certain it was, she _did_ seem
better. I believe the real fact of the matter to be this. Molly's aunt
was the daughter of a well-to-do retired butcher, and like many of her
class, had over-indulged in high feeding, and consequently was always
suffering from overloaded stomach. The mess that I gave her made her
sick, and that, in reality, and not merely in imagination, effected a
cure.

I then put her on a lower diet, recommended her plenty of walking
exercise, and in a very short time there was a complete change in her
constitution. She no longer felt dyspeptic and desponding, suffered no
longer from nervous headaches, in fact, in her own words, she "felt
quite a girl again." All the effect of my wonderful medicine. This, of
course, was a feather in my cap, and she looked up to me more than ever.

A week and then a fortnight passed away, and I now thought it high time
to break to the aunt my love affair with her niece, and ask her consent
to our union. So I called upon her one morning and requested to speak
with her alone. She received me in the back parlour, and begged me to
take a seat. I did so, and began thus:--

"Ahem! Madam, I wished to talk to you upon a matter of some delicacy."

"Good gracious, doctor! What can have happened?" she exclaimed,
observing a look of unwonted gravity in my face.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," I said; "at least, nothing of any great
importance. Hear me. I am a physician of a certain age and in very good
practice." I paused.

"Well, Dr. Crow," said the aunt.

"And I am still a bachelor," I continued.

"Well, sir," said she, wriggling about in her seat and looking coy, as
if she guessed I meditated a proposal, and took the compliment to
herself.

"Well, madam," said I, impatient to get through this painful duty, "to
cut a long story short, I am in love with your charming niece."

"_Oh!_ doctor," she exclaimed.

The "_Oh!_" was jerked out with a spasm truly painful, and her
countenance fell visibly.

"I dare say you were not prepared for such a surprise, but I have known
Miss Sykes now a long time, and I never saw anyone who could suit me
better as a wife. Miss Sykes and I have talked the matter over
together, and she only awaits her aunt's consent. Thank you, thank you,
madam," said I seizing her hand, "I knew you would give it," before
giving her an opportunity either to consent or refuse.

"Molly!" I cried, "come and thank your kind aunt for having given her
consent to our happy union."

Molly entered, blushing and giggling.

"Come, Molly," said I, "come and thank aunt, for now we shall be as
happy as two birds in a nest. I'll go and see about the licence, and
we'll get married as soon as ever we can."

I laughed and appeared very merry, repeatedly seizing the aunt by the
hand and patting her on the shoulder before she had time to get a word
out.

"Stay, sir," said she, at length, "I can do nothing without the consent
of my niece's father."

"Oh, that will be easily obtained, I am quite sure," said I, hopefully.
"We will at once write a note, and all will be settled."

I brought her her desk, opened it, took out pen, ink, and paper, and
placing a chair for her, induced her to write.

"Yes," I said, looking over her shoulder as she wrote, "that will
do--not _too_ cold. Say I am in a position to make his daughter
comfortable, and that you think it is a very desirable match--yes,
that's the sort of thing. Give it to me, I'll take it to the post." So
saying, I snatched up the epistle, bounded from the house, and returned
shortly, as happy as if everything were already settled.

In due time came a reply from old Sykes, to the purport that, though he
would have chosen a younger man for his daughter, yet on the whole,
considering that I had a pretty good business as a doctor, and could
keep her well, he saw no reason why he should withhold his consent.
Furthermore, he begged the aunt that if his daughter were to be married
to hasten the marriage as much as possible, as young Rashly had been
missing for some time, and folks said that he was down at H---- after
her.

"Bravo! old Sykes," said I to myself, "Fortune seems to favour me
indeed."

The next step that I intended to take was to obtain the consent of my
father. Accordingly, I took leave of Molly for a time, stating that I
had to absent myself on business, and promising a speedy return. I
entered the stage and arrived at our village, where I put up at my
father's inn. It was towards evening when I arrived.

"Landlord!" I cried, disguising my voice, "I wish to dine in
half-an-hour."

"Yes, sir," said my father, coming towards me, bowing, and rubbing his
hands.

"Have you got a good bed?" asked I, "for I wish to sleep here to-night."

"Yes, sir, capital beds, sir," said my father, "both clean and well
aired."

"Very well, then, make me up one," said I, pompously.

"It shall be done, sir," said my father, obsequiously.

I occupied myself with reading until dinner-time. At length the dinner
came up.

"A pint of your best port, landlord," I cried, magnificently.

My father returned with the port, crusted and cob-webbed, from the
cellar, and I began my dinner. Having finished, I filled my pipe, and
whilst my father cleared the table, I deigned to enter into conversation
with him.

I began by asking him the number of inhabitants in the village, and then
brought him out upon the subject of the epidemic.

"Ah! sir," said my father, deeply moved, "it carried off my only son
some three weeks ago, and a finer lad you wouldn't see in all England. I
hoped that he would have been the prop of my old age, but he was carried
off, sir, along with the rest--struck down in the very spring of his
youth, as you may say. Only nineteen was my poor boy when he was taken
from me," and my father's eyes moistened as he spoke.

"Only nineteen!" I exclaimed. "Was he not strong?"

"Strong, sir! I believe you--strong as a lion," said my father.

"Dear me!" I said, "it is very strange that his youth and strength did
not resist the malady."

"So everyone said, sir," replied my father, "but--but he had been ailing
for some time before."

"What was his complaint before he caught this disease?" I asked.

"Ah! sir, that's just the point," answered my father. "I sadly fear that
it was an epidemic of a more dangerous sort."

"How so?" asked I. "What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, my real opinion is now that the young man was too strongly
attached to a maid whom he couldn't marry, and that undermined his
health. Then came the epidemic, which he had not sufficient strength to
shake off."

"Ah!" said I, "and why could he not marry her? Was the maid
unrelenting?"

"Not that, exactly, sir. Indeed, I believe she was as much in love with
him, but----"

"But what?"

"Well, the fact of the matter is, sir, the girl's father and I ain't
friends, and neither of us was willing to give our consent. The girl was
sent off by her father to live at her aunt's, just to get her out of my
son's way. I knew all about this, but I wasn't going to tell the young
man, lest he should take it into his head to run after her, so, thinking
to blunt his passion, I invented the story of her death, saying that she
had been carried off by the epidemic, hoping that after a time, finding
she was no more, that he would cease to think of her. But instead of
that, he grew worse and worse, and I attribute his death to the lie I
told about his sweetheart's decease."

"You did very wrong," said I, "not to give your consent."

"Well, but, sir, if I _had_ given _mine_, the girl's father would not
have given _his_," replied my father.

"If you had been the first to make up the quarrel, I have no doubt that
he would have given his consent," said I.

My father seemed stung with this reproach, and took out his handkerchief
to wipe his eyes.

"Ah, my poor son! my poor son!" sobbed my father. "What wouldn't I give
to have him back again?"

"Would you give your consent to his marriage with the girl he loved if
he could come to life again?" I asked.

"Ay, sir, that would I, only too gladly," replied my father, "but what's
the use of talking now that he has gone from me for ever?"

"You speak like a man without faith," said I. "Have you no belief in an
after life? Have you no hope of meeting him in Heaven?"

"That is the only hope I have left, sir," said my father, "but in the
meantime----"

"Ah!" said I, "you cannot make up your mind to be consoled for his loss
for the few short years that you have to remain upon earth."

"Well, sir, it's very hard to bear," said my father.

"Have you ever prayed?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," said he, "I say my prayers regularly."

"But do you say them earnestly?" said I. "Do you believe that if you ask
a thing that you will receive what you ask for? For instance, if you
were to pray for your son to be restored to life, do you believe that he
really _would_ be restored to life?"

My father stared in surprise.

"Well, to tell you the truth, sir, no," he said; "for we all know that
when a man has been buried three weeks that he rarely returns. Even
Lazarus was but four days under the earth. In fact, the thought of
praying for his return after his spirit had once been yielded up never
occurred to me. When David was bereaved of his child by Uriah's wife, he
humbled himself whilst the child was yet alive with sackcloth and ashes,
but when he heard that the child was dead, he rose and ate bread. What
instance is there on record of one returning to life after being buried
three weeks?"

"Pray, nevertheless," said I; "the mercy of God is boundless. Who knows
but that----"

"Oh, sir, sir," said my father, shaking his head, "you but mock me; it
cannot be."

"It is impious of you to say it cannot be. Nothing is impossible with
God," said I.

My father smiled faintly. I saw that he regarded me as a kind of well
meaning madman, and after lighting my candle, he showed me the way to my
room and shut me in for the night.

My room was some few doors off from my father's. I undressed and went to
bed. I had not been in bed more than an hour when I heard my father's
footsteps on the stairs. He, too, was going to bed. There was no other
guest in the inn then, and all was quiet.

I allowed my father a quarter of an hour to get into bed. Then I opened
my chamber door, and listened to hear if he was praying, for he always
prayed aloud. I was satisfied that he was praying; what the precise
words were I could not quite distinguish, but I fancied I heard my name
mentioned once or twice. I returned to my chamber and closed the door. I
allowed my father another hour to go to sleep. When the time had
expired, I stepped on tip-toe across the passage and turned the handle
of his bedroom door noiselessly. I peeped in. All was silent, or rather
he was snoring loudly. Leaving the door ajar, I went back cautiously to
my chamber to fetch the candle, and then softly and noiselessly I
entered the room where my father lay asleep. I had provided myself with
a pinch of salt, which I sprinkled in the flame, so as to give a look of
ghostly pallor to my face. Then, tapping my father lightly on the
shoulder, he started up in bed.

"Good heavens!" he cried, with every hair erect on his head--

"Jack! is it you?"

He spoke huskily, and his teeth chattered.

"Hush!" said I, in a sepulchral voice; "listen to me. Because you have
prayed fervently, I have risen from my grave to comfort you. Grieve not
for me, father, for I am happy. I have returned to thank you for having
given your consent to my marriage. Molly is now mine in spirit, and I
shall henceforth rest peacefully in my tomb. Farewell."

I strode towards the door, with long, silent, majestic strides, and
closed it carefully after me, leaving my father staring after me into
space and speechless with terror.

I was a very young man then, and a reckless devil-may-care sort of
fellow, otherwise I should not have attempted such a dangerous practical
joke. The consequences might have been fatal; as it was, my father's
nerves were terribly shaken, and I spoilt all his night's rest. When he
brought up my breakfast the next morning in the parlour he looked pale
and haggard.

"What is the matter, good man?" said I, patronisingly, in my usual
feigned voice.

"Oh, sir!" said my father, excitedly, "I saw him last night!"

"Saw him!" I exclaimed. "Saw whom?"

"My son, Jack, sir. Oh, who would have believed it?"

"What! and has he returned to life, or was it his spirit?"

"Yes, sir, his ghost," said my father, with a look of awe, and then he
began relating to me the whole particulars of his son's spiritual
apparition.

"Then you followed my advice, and have been praying?"

"That I did, sir, with all my heart and soul," said my father.

"You told me last evening," said I, "that if your son should come to
life again you would give your consent to his marriage. If you really
repent having withheld your consent during his lifetime let me see that
your repentance is true by writing me the following words and affixing
your signature."

"What words, sir, must I write?" he asked.

"Write," said I, "'If my son is restored to me I will give my consent to
his marriage, with the girl of his choice,' that is what you have to
write."

"But--but--" began my father.

"Write what I tell you, and affix your signature," said I, gruffly.

"As you like, sir," said he, complying with my request. I blotted the
sheet of paper, and placed it in my pocket.

"Now, sir," said I to my father, "I have a secret to tell you. Do not
faint, but be prepared for a shock."

My father looked at me in astonishment.

"Your son lives," said I.

"What do I hear?--my son--my son lives?" he exclaimed, staggering
backwards. Then recovering somewhat his composure, he asked, "But how? I
myself saw him laid in the ground; besides, I tell you I saw his ghost
last night."

"That was nothing but a distempered dream brought on by our conversation
before you retired to rest," said I. "I tell you your son lives--he is
in my care. Listen; but what I am about to tell you, you must keep to
yourself, otherwise it will damage my reputation. Hearing that your son
had been buried, I, being a doctor and in want of a subject for
dissection, employed resurrectioners or body-snatchers to procure me
your son's body. They stole it from his grave and brought it to my
house. When I began to dissect I found that he was not yet dead. He has
been at my house ever since, still very weak from his recent illness. He
has related to me his love affair, and knows of the deception that you
practised upon him. He begged me to procure for him his father's consent
to his marriage, otherwise, he said he might die in real earnest."

"Oh, doctor, doctor!" cried my father, "can it be true? Oh, say that you
are not jesting with me. Do not trifle with the feelings of a poor man!"

"I never trifle," I replied, with dignity.

"Then it is true, doctor, really true! O God be praised," and he clasped
his hands convulsively, whilst the tears ran down his cheeks.

Suddenly his ecstasy abated, and he grew serious.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Oh, but, doctor, if--if after all what I saw last night were not a
dream--if whilst during your absence from home, my son really has died,
and appeared to me last night to let me know. What proof have you that
the vision of my son last night _was_ a dream?" he asked.

"What proof?" I exclaimed. "_This_ proof," I cried, throwing off my
disguise and speaking in my own natural voice again. "Behold me, father,
risen from the dead!"

My father's surprise, consternation and joy was beyond all description.

"What!" he cried, "and are you really Jack risen from the grave? Come,
let me touch you to be sure you are no ghost.

"Ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, hysterically. "What! Jack, my boy, I
see it all. Ha! ha! ha! ha!" and he wept upon my shoulder till I thought
he'd go off in a fit.

"Hush! father," I cried, "and calm yourself. My resurrection must be a
secret between us two, for motives of policy. Do you understand?"

"Why a secret?" he asked.

"Never mind now; that is part of my plan. If you tell a single soul
you'll spoil all, and I am a ruined man," I said.

"I understand nothing of all this, Jack," said my father, "but you may
count upon my secrecy; but I say, Jack, how long must I keep the secret,
for I am burning to tell everyone in the village?"

"For Heaven's sake, hold your tongue," said I, "until I give you
permission to let it out, or I am ruined for life."

"Well, well, Jack, mum's the word," said my father.

I then resumed my disguise and prepared to leave the inn.

"Why, what the devil are you going to be up to now?"

"Mum's the word," said I. "You shall know all when I return. Good-bye,
father," and off I started.

I busied myself a good deal about getting everything in order for the
wedding, and returned to H----, where without further bother I was
married at the village church.

Fearful that if I threw off my disguise before the wedding that
something or other, I could not tell what or from what quarter, would
mar all and prevent the marriage just at the last moment, after having
been so successful up to this time, this feeling, or presentiment of
harm, vague as it was, induced me to keep on my disguise all through the
ceremony, but when it came to signing my name in the register, I signed
my real name--"John Hearty."

This created some sensation.

The aunt wanted me to explain myself. However, we hurried back to the
aunt's house, where we at once threw off my disguise, explained all, and
craved pardon for the deception I had practised upon her.

At first the aunt seemed a little cold. She was hurt at the deception
being carried on so long.

There was no necessity for such tricks, she said, if she had been told
all at the beginning; nothing would have been known to anyone else.

"Do you think I would trust a woman's tongue?" I said. "Come, now,
aunt," I said, "though I am not a doctor, I did you quite as much good
as a court physician could have done you. Yes, although the medicine was
only liquorice water mixed up with other harmless filth."

"In that, too, I've been imposed upon, then," murmured the aunt.

"Nevertheless, I cured you," retorted I; "you yourself admitted it, and
what is more, I took no fee."

Soon, however, Molly's aunt recovered her good humour, and all passed
off with a hearty laugh.

The only difficulty now was to reconcile ourselves with Molly's father.
The comedy was nearly at an end. I donned my disguise once more, and we
started off together after the wedding breakfast to our native village,
and driving up to old Sykes' house, we knocked at the door.

We entered, and I introduced myself as his son-in-law. He received us
well, and wished us both health and prosperity. I did not know exactly
how to break the ice, so I reflected a moment.

"Mr. Sykes," said I, still in my feigned voice, "I shall expect you this
evening to dine with me at six o'clock at the 'Headless Lady.' Come, I
will take no refusal. If we are to be friends together, I shall expect
you, if not----"

He began to make an excuse about his gouty leg, saying that he never
left the house.

"Oh, nonsense," said I, "that is just the reason you never get well.
Going out now and then will do you good. I am a doctor, you know, and I
advise you for your good. If you do not like to walk, make use of our
coach."

He still hesitated, and at length said, "Well, the fact is, I never go
to that house. The landlord and I are not friends. We have had some
differences together of long standing, and----"

"Nonsense," said I, "that is no excuse at all. All men have differences
now and then, but we must learn to forget and forgive."

"No," said Sykes; "he was very much in the wrong."

"Well, I've no doubt that he thinks you are in the wrong," said I. "Dine
with me this evening there, and I'll undertake to make matters straight
for you both. Hearty is a good and honest man, and is one of my best
friends. I have known him these nineteen years. If you refuse to come,
it will be an offence to me, mind that."

After a time I succeeded in softening him down a little, till I at
length drew from him a reluctant consent, and, according to his word, he
appeared that evening at our inn.

A grand dinner was prepared, before partaking of which I succeeded in
joining the hands of the two bitter enemies.

Seeing that the hour had arrived for the divulging of the secret I
explained all in a few words, threw off my disguise and craved his
blessing.

Old Sykes was a crusty sort of a cove, and I expected that there would
have been a scare, but we had got him into a good humour previously, and
he was so much amused, in spite of himself, at the whole scheme that he
wrung my hand heartily and laughed much over my odd adventures.

Dinner passed off gaily, and I secretly put the doctor in possession of
his old clothes again. I paid him the money I owed him, and for ever
kept secret the name of the doctor who had brought me to life again so
cleverly.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Why, Jack," said Mr. Oldstone, at the conclusion of our host's recital,
"you can tell a story like the best of us."

"Ay, that he can indeed," chimed in Mr. Crucible and Mr. Hardcase.

"There is a great deal of poetry in Jack's story," remarked Mr.
Parnassus.

Mr. Blackdeed said that it ought to be adapted to the stage.

"And was it ever discovered who unearthed you, Jack?" inquired Dr.
Bleedem, who had a fellow feeling for the Dr. Slasher of Jack's
narrative, as he could imagine what his own feelings would have been had
he fallen a victim to the infuriated villagers.

"No, sir," replied our host, "I never let out the truth, although I was
pestered with questions all day long by every one in the village. At
length, however, an old doctor in these parts died from the epidemic,
and after his death, I gave out to the villagers that he was the man who
had dug me up."

"Ah!" said Dr. Bleedem, "there was no harm in that."

"And the two body-snatchers, did you ever see _them_ again?" asked
Professor Cyanite.

"Ha! ha!" laughed our host, "and that _was_ a joke, surely. One evening,
shortly after my resurrection, leastways before everyone knew that I had
come to life again, I was strolling through the cemetery alone where I
had been buried, and sitting down upon my own grave, I began meditating
upon my miraculous escape from death, when who should pass by but my two
friends, Tom and Bill. I looked up as they passed. You should have seen
how they took to their heels. My eyes! I shall never forget it."

"That was a rare joke, indeed," said our artist, "and that other young
fellow, young Rashly, did you see any more of him?"

"Ay, sir," replied our host, "and that was another good joke. The Sunday
after our marriage I appeared in the village church with Molly. How the
people did stare, to be sure! I recognised young Rashly in the Squire's
pew with his father. He could not see me, as I was behind a pillar, and
he had not yet heard of my coming to life again. Seeing that he was
without a hymn book, I stepped out suddenly from my pew, and crossing
the aisle, offered him mine. I never shall forget his face. He turned as
pale as a ghost, and was obliged to support himself against the back of
the pew. He was nigh fainting, and his father was obliged to lead him
out of church."

"Your resurrection must have made quite a sensation in the village
then," said McGuilp.

"My word, it did, sir, and no mistake," answered the landlord.
"Everybody in the village and for miles round it wanted to shake me by
the hand and welcome me back to life. People used to come from long
distances to hear me recount my adventures, till I grew quite sick of
it, and shut myself up and wouldn't see nobody."

"Ay, ay, tedious work I've no doubt, telling the same story over and
over again to every new comer," said Mr. Oldstone. "But tell us, Jack,
did young Rashly ever discover who it was that gave him the thrashing?"

"Yes, sir, that, too, came out in time," said our host, "and devilish
sheepish he looked, so they said, when he heard it was his old rival in
disguise. He would have liked to have had me up about it before the
assizes, but he didn't like the idea of exposing himself, and so the
matter dropped. After a time, however, finding that all the boys in the
village laughed at him whenever he walked abroad, he went to London, and
I have never heard anything more of him."

At this moment someone knocked at the door.

"Come in!" called out several voices at once.

The door opened ajar, and the head of our hostess timidly appeared at
the aperture.

"Beg pardon, gentlemen," said that worthy dame, "but could Helen be
spared a little just to help me a bit?"

"Oh! how very annoying!" cried our artist, "just as the weather is
clearing up and I was making up my mind for a long sitting."

"I am afraid I can't do without her, sir, just now," said our hostess,
"but if you wouldn't mind waiting an hour or so, she will be at
liberty."

"An hour without Helen!" exclaimed several members at once. "Oh,
impossible! and then to be snatched from us again so soon!"

"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. McGuilp, and you, too, Dame Hearty," said
Mr. Oldstone, "you are to blame, both of you. Such conduct can't be
suffered to go unpunished; therefore, in the name of the club I condemn
you both to contribute to the common entertainment by telling a story,
each of you, when next called upon."

"Hear, hear!" cried several voices.

"Yes, a story from Dame Hearty, and a still longer one from Mr. McGuilp
for having robbed us of Helen--a most just sentence!"

"Oh, gentlemen!" said our hostess modestly. "You wouldn't care to hear
any of my stories; besides, I've forgotten them all long ago."

"Come now, Dame Hearty, there is no backing out," said Mr. Oldstone. "A
sentence is a sentence."

"Well, sir, if it must be so, I'll try and think of one whenever the
gentlemen of this respectable club choose to command my services. Come,
Helen!" And our hostess led away her fair daughter by the hand amidst
the groans of her ardent admirers.

"Now, Mr. McGuilp," said Mr. Oldstone as the door closed after Helen and
her mother, "we have a full hour before us. I call upon you to fill up
that period to the satisfaction of the club."

"Yes, yes!" shouted a chorus of voices; "out with it; no mercy on him.
Let justice be done."

"Well, gentlemen, if you will allow me a moment to compose myself, I'll
endeavour to satisfy you," said our artist. Then resting his head on his
hand as if to call up from the depths of his memory some long-forgotten
tale or legend, he said, "Gentlemen, I recollect a story in our family,
handed down to me from some remote ancestor. I used to be frightened
with it in my childhood. It is long ago now since I heard it related,
but I will endeavour to give it you as perfectly as possible after the
lapse of so many years."

"Well, we're all attention," said one of the members.

Then our artist, after stretching himself, folded his arms and commenced
the following tale--




[Illustration]


CHAPTER II.

DER SCHARFRICHTER.[1]--THE ARTIST'S SECOND STORY.


A respectable ancestor of mine, far back in the middle ages, went to
study at a German university. I cannot call to mind the name of it, but
that is of no consequence. I think he studied medicine, but I will not
be sure even of that. I know that he belonged to a "chor," or company of
students who pride themselves on their liberty, who have their own laws
and customs, who fight duels with rival chors, and who settle disputes
among themselves by outvying each other in the drinking of beer, who
revel in street brawls and other such respectable amusements, playing
practical jokes upon the peaceful citizens; in fact, making night
hideous.

I know not whether my ancestor was any better or any worse than his
fellow students, but he seems to have entered with pleasure into all
their amusements, and never to have held himself aloof when any mischief
was going on. He was consequently looked up to rather than otherwise by
his companions.

It was the custom then, and still is among Germans, especially among
German students, to travel long distances on foot, going together often
in large numbers and putting up at night, if they could, at some inn; if
not, in some cottage, stables, or loft, with nothing but straw to sleep
upon.

But German students are not pampered mortals, and can put up with very
homely accommodation. If after a fatiguing day's march a student can
find at his quarters sufficient beer, black bread, sausage, raw ham, or
a little strong cheese, he is perfectly satisfied. Should he be so
fortunate as to light upon a dish of "sauer kraut," he would fancy
himself in the seventh heaven.

The German is hardy, yet studious, highly sensitive, and keenly
susceptible to the beauties of nature. Though somewhat penurious, he is
fond of good fellowship, and is a staunch friend.

The foot tour in Germany is a thing common to all classes, from the
nobility down to the "handwerksbursch," or journeying mechanic, which
latter class is often unmercifully persecuted by the university student.
From time immemorial there seems to have been a feeling of animosity
between the two classes, as nearer home we find existing between the
"town and gown."

The German student of the middle ages, as in our times, was fond of
swagger, delighted in wearing high boots, enormous spurs, an exaggerated
sword, a preposterous hat, was provoked to a duel on the slightest
occasion, boasted of the number of "schoppen" or "seidel" of beer that
he could stow away beneath his doublet, and ran up long bills without a
thought of how they were to be paid.

In those days every student had his guitar or other musical instrument
wherewith to serenade his "Liebchen" or lady-love, for that latter
article was indispensable to the life of a student, and though much
grossness and barbarity has been attributed to him, he is, nevertheless,
at times capable of being elevated by a pure and refined passion, for he
has much poetry in his nature, and is both sentimental and romantic in
the extreme.

In all ages students have meddled much in politics, and princes have
been known to tremble before their audacity and resolution.

But enough of this digression, gentlemen. My present tale demands only
that you should call up in your minds the German student on his foot
tour in the long vacation, with his keen relish of the beautiful, his
lusty and well-trained frame that laughs at fatigue, his love of
good-fellowship, his tender thoughts of home with the image of his
lady-love.

    "Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
    Entering with every step it took through many a scene."

                                                           --BYRON.[2]

I must now return to my ancestor, who at the time this story commences
was on one of these pedestrian rambles, accompanied by some twenty of
his fellow students, all stout, hearty youths who could eat, drink, and
fight with any in the university, and flirt, too, I've no doubt, when
occasion tempted them.

These attributes, you will say, are not strictly necessary to the
student preparing for honours, yet, nevertheless, somehow German
students manage to find time for other amusements besides dry study.
They _can_ play, but when they _do_ study, they study hard.

My ancestor at the time I speak of was a young man of about twenty, and
had already been two years at the university. We may presume, therefore,
that he spoke German tolerably well, if not well.

I believe it was in the Harz mountains, the Thueringer Wald, and about
those parts that he was travelling on foot with his friends.

They rose at daybreak and walked hard, with their knapsacks on their
backs, singing or conversing as they went, reposing at noon in some
shady spot to avoid the heat of the day. When the sun began to abate a
little they would resume their journey till night overshadowed them,
when they would encamp, as hungry as hunters, in some rude quarters,
where they would make merry together over a simple but plentiful supper,
and talk over the fatigues of the day.

They had been following this sort of life for some time, when one
evening as they were hastening towards their quarters in groups of twos,
threes, and fours, my ancestor asked of his friend, "What is the name
of the township where we are to sleep to-night, Hans?"

"----dorf," answered his friend; "but we shall have to hasten in order
to reach it before nightfall. Look, how the mist is rising!"

"Ah! so it is," replied my relative, whose name was Frederick, but who
was never called otherwise than "Fritz" by his companions.

Our Fritz had remained behind to enjoy the last dying glow of a gorgeous
sunset, and was wrapt in meditation, while his friend Hans hurried on.

"Now then, Fritz!" cried one, Max, "don't lag behind so; or are your
English legs not strong enough for our German mountains?"

Our Englishman was stung at this taunt, implying, as it did a
disparagement of himself and countrymen, however undeserved it was, for
the Germans knew that he could outwalk the best of them when he chose.
Yet it had the effect of making him hasten his steps a little.

The dusky hue of night fast overshadowed our students, and the mist now
rose at their feet in thick clouds, so that it was with the utmost
difficulty that they could find their way.

My ancestor was still a long distance behind the rest, but he was
gaining fast on them, when in the darkness, he stumbled over a clump of
rock and sprained his ankle. All hope of catching up his companions was
now gone. The most he could do was to hobble on slowly with the help of
his staff, now losing his way, now finding it, whenever the moon peeped
out to light up his path, then losing it again when the moon hid itself
behind a cloud, till he began to despair of ever finding anything in the
shape of a roof to shelter him from the night air during sleep, and he
more than half made up his mind to encamp on the spot, but just then he
felt a large drop of rain on his face, then another, and another.

It had been a broiling hot day, and the air was still sultry. Presently
a flash of vivid forked lightning danced before his eyes, followed by a
clap of thunder so terrific that it bid fair to burst the drum of his
ear.

The storm was now overhead; the flashes grew more frequent and more
vivid, and the thunder growled more fiercely than ever. In a few minutes
the rain poured down in torrents, and the English student was drenched
to the skin.

"Here is a nice situation for a man on a pleasure trip!" muttered my
ancestor to himself. "Lost, in the dead of night, in the midst of a
thunderstorm, in an open plain without shelter, drenched like a drowned
rat, as hungry as a wolf, and hardly able to crawl, from a sprained
ankle!"

His reflections were anything but of a pleasing sort, as you may
imagine, yet he hobbled on as best he could, endeavouring to comfort
himself with the vague hope of finding some sort of shelter for the
night as soon as the storm should pass off.

After dragging on his limbs with exemplary patience for another
half-mile, it being then about midnight, he perceived a light from a
cottage window not very far distant. His courage began to revive, and
with halting gait he made for the door of the cottage.

He knocked loudly, but no one answered. Thinking that he had not been
heard for the rumbling of the thunder, he knocked again and again. Still
no one came to the door.

"I mean to lodge here for the night," said the Englishman to himself,
"if I have to break the door open to effect an entrance." And he kept up
a furious knocking for about three-quarters-of-an-hour. At length he
heard a harsh, grating voice within break out in a string of choice
Teutonic oaths, and the word "schweinhund" (pig-dog) pronounced once or
twice.

Footsteps were then heard descending the stairs, and the next moment a
quaint-looking personage appeared at the door in dressing-gown and
slippers, with night-cap on head and candle in hand, and demanded in a
surly tone what the "teufel" he wanted at that hour of night.

My ancestor apologised with much courtesy for having roused up so worthy
an individual at such an unearthly hour, but pleaded that he was a poor
benighted traveller, hungry and soaked to the skin.

"Then you should have moved further on," was the curt reply.

"But whither?" asked my relative.

"To the township. This house is not a 'wirtshaus.'"

"How far distant is it?"

"A mile."

By this he meant a German mile--equal to four English miles.

"A mile!" exclaimed the Englishman. "I could not walk a mile to save my
life. I've sprained my ankle and can't move a step further. I'm sorry to
put you to such inconvenience, my good fellow, but I really must put up
here."

"But there is no accommodation," growled the inmate.

"No matter. I dare say you have a little straw; if not, the bare ground
will do."

The inmate sulkily suffered the traveller to enter, and showing him into
a parlour on the ground-floor, was about to leave him to himself.

"Stop a bit, my good host," said the student. "I must beg to remind you
that I am as hungry as a wolf, and as cold as an icicle. If you could
find me something in your larder to keep soul and body together, and
light me a nice little fire to dry my clothes, you will make me your
friend for life."

"Food! Fire! at this time of night!" exclaimed the host, with a look
that seemed to say, "Is the man mad?"

"My dear friend," said the Englishman, putting his hand in his pocket
and passing a Reichsgulden into the hand of his host, "I do not want
you to do anything for me gratis. Make me as comfortable as you can for
that--on my departure I'll give you more."

"Oh, mein Herr!" said our host, softening at the touch of the bright
metal, "that alters the case entirely. You shall have everything you
want. I am sorry I haven't another bed, but you can have some straw, and
a fire to dry your clothes. I'll go and see directly what there is in
the house by way of refreshment, for you must be hungry indeed!"

Our host left the apartment, and returned shortly with some firewood and
a heap of straw.

To light a fire and arrange the straw for the traveller in a corner of
the room was the work of a moment. He then hurried off to get supper
ready, and returned soon afterwards with a dish of sausage, some black
bread, some strong cheese and a bottle of "schnaps."

"Our fare is homely, you see, sir," said the host, apologetically; "but
it is all we have in the house. We are poor people, and not accustomed
to entertain travellers."

"Never mind that, mine host," said the student, "as long as there is
plenty of it, we'll excuse the quality."

So saying, he began to strip himself and to hang his clothes before the
fire. Then taking from his knapsack a clean shirt and another pair of
hose, he donned his slippers and drew his chair close to the table.

The host, after trimming a lamp and lighting it, placed it in the centre
of the table, and was just about to return to his bed, when the student
called out with his mouth full of sausage, "What! mine host, will you
not honour me with your company whilst I discuss my supper? Company
helps digestion, you know, and I'm sure you wouldn't like to have my
undigested supper on your conscience."

The host returned with a grunt, saying that he couldn't stop long, as he
had to rise early on the morrow.

"Oh, so have I, good mine host," said my ancestor, "so we are equal.
Come, sit down here, and let me see you toss off a glass or two of this
most excellent schnaps. It will keep out the cold and give you pleasant
dreams, besides adding a still richer tint to that glorious nose of
yours."

"Humph!" replied the host, little pleased at this personal allusion; but
he drew a chair to the table and made an effort at being sociable.

My ancestor until now had hardly had time to give more than a cursory
glance at the features of his host, but finding himself now at table
opposite him, he took a minute survey of his countenance in all its
details.

The exterior of our host was striking, to say the least. He was a man of
about five-and-forty, of middle height, broad rather than tall. His neck
and chest might have served as a model for the Farnese Hercules. His
hair and beard, which were matted and unkempt, were of a flaming red,
and he was just beginning to turn bald. His brow was low, knotted, and
streaked with red. His eyebrows, which were of the same tint as his
hair, were enormous, and overhung a pair of small, deep-set brown eyes
that moved furtively from right to left with the rapidity of lightning,
giving to his countenance a remarkably sinister expression.

His complexion was florid, and the nose, which was large and
bottle-shaped, was of so bright a red that it made the eyes water to
look upon it, and spoke little for its owner's temperance. His ears,
large and red, stood out at the sides of his head like those of an
animal, and their orifices were carefully protected by fierce tufts of
red hair. The back part of his head was excessively developed, and the
jaw was large and massive. His arms were very muscular, and hairy as an
ape's, with strongly-defined purple veins, and his hands, the fingers of
which were short and stunted, were the colour of raw meat. The legs were
somewhat short for the body, and slightly bowed.

My ancestor, as he scanned the grim features of his host, could not help
imagining himself a prince in a fairy-tale who had been lured by the
evil genius of the storm into the castle of some ogre, who would sooner
or later devour him unless rescued by the good fairies. The ogre was not
a communicative person. He had not opened his mouth once since he had
taken his seat at the table, save to toss down a glass of schnaps.

At length the Englishman, curious to know something of the life and
habits of this mysterious individual, was the first to break silence.

"You live in a very isolated spot, mine host," said he.

"Ja," was the laconic reply.

"Have you no nearer neighbours than those of the township?" demanded his
guest.

"Nein," grunted the ogre.

"And do you enjoy this solitary existence?" pursued the traveller.

"Ja!" was the inevitable monosyllabic response.

"I shall not get much out of him," said my ancestor to himself, and
again there was silence for the space of five minutes.

As if searching for some topic wherewith to renew the conversation, the
student cast his eyes round the apartment, taking in at a glance the
minutest article of furniture or other commodity that the room
contained.

It was a homely, undecorated apartment, built after the fashion of the
period, and differed little from most other apartments of the sort. If
it was remarkable for anything, it was for its extreme simplicity, not
to say nakedness, but there was one object hanging on the wall that at
once attracted the traveller's eye. It was a two-handed sword of
peculiar shape, and appeared bright and sharp as if ready for use.

"Aha!" exclaimed the Englishman, fixing his eye on the object, "you have
been a soldier, I see."

"Not I," said the host.

"No? Ah! I see that your sword is not of the same form as those used in
battle. It is probably antique--an heirloom, perhaps."

The man answered with a nod of the head.

"I thought so," said the stranger; "and yet it seems bright and well
cared for. It has evidently been sharpened lately. Do you always keep it
well sharpened?"

"On great occasions, yes," was the reply, and our host gave a peculiar
wink, accompanying it with a significant gesture with both hands, in
imitation of wielding the two-handed instrument over his head, then
slapping his own neck he uttered a low whistle and a sort of chuckle
thus: "Wh--ew!--click!" being his mode of expressing the action of
cutting off a head.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the Englishman, "is that in your line?"

The ogre answered by a savage laugh.

At this moment the crying of a child was heard overhead, together with
the harsher tones of its mother scolding it.

"Then you do not live perfectly solitary, as I thought," said the
student; "you have also wife and children?"

"One boy only," replied the man.

"Ah! An only son--a great pet, I'll warrant," said his guest, finishing
his last morsel of supper. "What age may he be?"

"Ten years old--fine boy--just like me--bringing him up like his
father," said the strange individual.

"If he turns out like his father, he'll be a beauty," thought my
ancestor. Then he asked aloud of his host:

"And what profession may that be that you wish to apprentice him to?"

"Like his father," was the curt reply; but it was followed by the same
sort of expressive gesture that I have just described.

"What!" exclaimed the student, "to cut off people's heads?"

"Yes," replied the ruffian; "I am a Scharfrichter."

"A what?" inquired my ancestor, who though he could make himself
generally understood in German, had never yet come across the word
"Scharfrichter" in his vocabulary.

"A Scharfrichter," repeated the man, raising his voice. "Don't you know
what that means? Why, one who cuts off heads."

"An executioner!" muttered the foreigner, half-aloud. "Have I been
constrained to crave the hospitality of an executioner?"

These words were inaudible to his host, but the ruffian evidently
observed a change in his guest's countenance when he informed him of the
nature of his profession, for he hastened to reply.

"One sees at once that you are a foreigner, and unused to the customs of
this country. You shudder at meeting an executioner, and sicken at the
thought of cutting off a head. No matter, it is always so at first. In
fact, the pleasure derived from seeing executions is an acquired taste;
but I'll show you some sport to-morrow. There is to be some rare fun
down at the township at daybreak," and the wretch gave another wink and
a chuckle. "I'll show you how to cut off a head. One blow--click!--cuts
like cheese."

"Horrible being!" muttered my ancestor to himself in his native tongue.
"Is it possible that anything human can actually revel in such
brutality?" and he shuddered in spite of himself. Then he said aloud to
his host--

"What was it that first gave you a taste for so horrible a profession?"

"Hm! I hardly know. I had a natural genius for it, I suppose. My father
was a butcher, and I was brought up from infancy to see cattle
slaughtered. At a very early age I took to slaughtering the animals
myself. I seemed to take a liking to it from the very beginning. I
happened to have an uncle at that time who was a Scharfrichter, and my
greatest delight was to see him cut off the heads of the criminals. I
began to long to do the same.

"I was a very young man when this uncle died, and as he had no male
issue to take his place, and no one else seemed to come forward, I
thought I would offer my services, and they were accepted. I have been
headsman of the town these thirty years, and when I die my son will step
into my shoes."

"But if he doesn't take to it?"

"He _must_ take to it--he'll _have_ to take to it."

"Why, are there not many other noble professions just as inviting as
that of chopping off the heads of one's fellow-mortals?"

"Not for the son of a headsman. I see you are ignorant of the laws of
this country. Here in Germany the son of a headsman is bound by law to
adopt the profession of his father, and should the executioner have a
daughter instead of a son, in that case, the man who marries his
daughter is bound to be headsman. Then the Scharfrichter is obliged to
build his house a mile away from other men, for he is a being hated and
shunned by everyone."

"This then is the reason of your solitude?"

"It is; and so far is this superstitious fear of contamination carried
in this country, that your citizen considers himself defiled if by
chance he has eaten out of the same plate that a headsman has once used.
Accordingly all vendors of crockery have orders to knock a chip out of
every earthen vessel that they sell to the headsman."

"Dear me!" exclaimed my ancestor, "what a peculiar custom! I never heard
that before. I certainly did remark that your crockery was in a most
dilapidated state, but I didn't consider the remark worth making,
although more than once in the course of the evening I felt inclined to
ask you how on earth you contrived to knock out chips of such a peculiar
shape by mere accident."

"Ah!" sighed the headsman, "what between the crockery-seller and----"

Here he put his finger to his lip and looked round the room
suspiciously.

"What is the matter?" asked the student.

"Hush!" said the headsman, "it isn't always safe to talk of mischievous
people--they are apt to appear. You know the saying, 'Talk of the
devil.'"

"Well," said my ancestor, "but what has that to do with your broken
crockery?"

"Hush!" answered his host, looking round him half-timidly; then
whispered, "I have a certain mischievous lodger that does my crockery
more harm than either the crockery-seller or my boy upstairs when he's
fractious."

"Ah!" exclaimed the traveller in surprise, "you have a lodger in your
house?"

"Ay!--a lodger who never pays his rent, and who drives me to my wit's
end by shying my crockery at my head. Look here, what a cut he gave my
wrist once in one of his pranks. I shall bear this mark to my grave." So
saying, he bared his wrist and displayed a deep, livid wound, long since
healed, but which left behind a scar which nothing could efface.

"An ugly cut, to be sure," remarked the Englishman. "But why on earth do
you not get rid of so playful a lodger?"

"Get rid of him! I only wish the devil I could. He comes here uninvited
and---- But let us not talk of him, or he may pay us another of his
pleasant visits, when you will be able to make his acquaintance. He
never stands upon ceremony, but comes just whenever he likes. He may be
in the room now, for what I know. I shall be off to bed."

My ancestor gazed round the room, vainly endeavouring to discover in
some hidden nook the object of his host's terror, when, marvellous to
relate! a dish on the top shelf was pitched, as if by some invisible
hand, from its post, and shattered into pieces against the opposite
wall, nearly hitting him on the head as it passed.

The traveller stared first at the shelf, then at his host, and turned
pale.

"Good Heavens!" he cried. "What was that?"

"What was it? Ay! You may well ask what it is," answered his host,
peevishly. "What in the devil's name should it be but that pest of a
'Poltergeist' again. I told you you would make his acquaintance ere
long."

"A what?--a '_Poltergeist_'?"

"Ay, Poltergeist--a malignant spirit, whose chief delight seems to be to
strike terror into the house of a poor honest headsman, and smash all
his crockery that he has to pay for out of his hard-earned wages."

"Holy Virgin!" ejaculated my ancestor, crossing himself (for he was a
good Catholic). "A malignant spirit! Saints protect us!"

But the words were hardly out of his mouth when crash! went another
plate upon the floor, just grazing his host's auburn head as it passed.

"Oh! come now, my fine fellow," said our host, in a tone of mild
remonstrance; "a little of that goes a long way."

Then turning to his guest, he remarked:

"I wonder why he honours me especially with his visits, and not other
people. I shouldn't wonder if he is someone that I have had the honour
of decapitating, and he comes to pay me an occasional visit in order to
impress upon me that he hasn't forgotten the little service I did him."

A large pointed knife that lay peacefully on the table was then suddenly
and powerfully thrown from the traveller's side, and remained with the
point sticking in the panel of the door opposite.

"Ho! ho!" cried the headsman; "this is getting warm work. Now, my
good friend, do let me entreat you to be more moderate in your
manifestations, and if you are quiet, to-morrow I will send you a
companion."

This promise, so far from quieting our spiritual guest, seemed to
infuriate him more than ever, for the bottle of schnaps, more than half
full, was now raised in the air and dashed to pieces on the table, the
candle being overturned at the same time, and falling flame downwards on
to the spirit spilt on the table, it ignited, and in a moment everything
was in a blaze.

"Fire! Fire!" cried the headsman, in a voice that roused up his wife and
child, who came tumbling downstairs in no time, to learn what was the
matter.

There is no knowing what mischief might not have taken place had not my
ancestor, with great presence of mind, snatched up his damp clothes from
before the fire, and succeeded in extinguishing the flame.

"What _is_ the matter, Franz?" exclaimed our host's better half,
appearing at the door just as matters were being set to rights again.

"Oh, nothing," said her fond spouse, "only that d----d Poltergeist
again, who seems bent upon burning us all in our beds before he has done
with us."

"Hush!" said his wife, "don't swear, or he may do as you say in real
earnest. Come to bed now, or to-morrow you won't be able to get up in
time. Remember----"

"Ah, true; I must have my night's rest, as it would not do for my hand
to tremble to-morrow when I mount the scaffold. _Gute nacht, mein
Herr._"

And our worthy host followed his partner out of the room, leaving my
ancestor to his reflections.

"Well," soliloquised my relative, "of all the strange adventures that
ever occurred to me, this beats all. Oh! there is not the slightest
doubt that what I have just witnessed is the work of the infernal
powers--some diabolical agency.

"When I see a knife jump up from the table by itself without anyone near
and deliberately fix itself in the panel of the door before my very
eyes; when I see a bottle of spirit overturned and broken in pieces, and
then a candle after that knocked over as if on purpose to ignite the
spirit, and withal no way of accounting for such a phenomenon; moreover,
when I see plates and dishes hurled from one end of the room to the
other, and apparently aimed at people's heads, and yet the perpetrator
of such pranks has the power of making himself invisible to the naked
eye, then, I say, this is not through human agency, but something
superhuman, and as it is not exactly an angelic mode of proceeding, it
must be the reverse."

My ancestor shuddered, and crossed himself. The manifestations, however,
had ceased for the night, and in five minutes our weary traveller was
fast asleep.

His dreams that night were not of the pleasantest. He imagined that he
mounted the scaffold with a crowd of eager eyes gazing at him, amongst
whom were his friends and travelling companions. His host, the
Scharfrichter, stood brandishing his terrible two-handed sword, and in
another moment his head would have been off, but at the critical time
the dream changed, and he was being pelted with crockery in the midst of
a cemetery at night by innumerable sheeted "poltergeister."

These and such-like visions were flitting before his brain, when a loud
thump at the door brought him back to earth again. There was the
Scharfrichter before him, not in dressing gown and slippers, as on the
previous evening, but attired in doublet and hose of a blood red, a
black _barello_ with scarlet cock's feather.

"Now then, mein Herr," said the headsman, taking down his fearful
instrument from the wall, "time's up."

My ancestor, only just awake, rubbed his eyes and imagined that he was
really and truly called away to execution, and that his last hour had
come.

The executioner, seeing that he hesitated, added: "If you want to
witness the cunning of my hand, now's your time."

My relation gave a sigh of relief when he began to recollect that his
own head was quite safe, and that he was only called to witness the
execution of another man.

"But I can't go; I have sprained my ankle," pleaded the Englishman.

"Oh, I don't intend to walk myself," replied the executioner. "I have my
horse and cart ready, and can give you a lift."

"Oh, if that's the case," said the student, "I shall be glad to go, as I
wish to meet my friends in the township."

"Come on, then," and the headsman assisted the Englishman into the cart.

As they were about starting, a little red-haired ruffian of about ten,
stout and well-built, and bearing a striking likeness to our host,
appeared on the threshold.

"Papa, you'll bring me home a football, won't you?" said the youth.

"Ay, my boy, that will I, a good sized one," answered his father.

"That's your son?" asked the student of his host. "Ah, a fine little
fellow. Here, my little man," said he to the child, and slipping a small
coin into his little fat fist, he patted him on the cheek and stepped
into the cart.

"Ah, he's a fine boy," said our host with a paternal pride, as he
whipped on his horse. "There is nothing of the milksop about him. _He's_
not afraid of the devil himself."

"You do well to be proud of him. I'll warrant you buy him many a pretty
toy," observed the Englishman.

"Buy him toys!" exclaimed the headsman, laughing. "As long as I bring
him home a football now and then, he is quite content." And he laughed
again.

"Well, that is a toy, isn't it?" said the student, not as yet
comprehending the headsman's meaning.

"Yes, a toy that costs me nothing, and gives him no end of amusement.
You should see how he kicks the heads about that I bring him home. It's
quite a pleasure to see the youngster enjoy himself in his innocent
way."

"You do not mean to say," said the Englishman, in horror, "that the
football you promised him is to be _a human head_!"

"Aye, to be sure," replied the Scharfrichter. "What else should it be?
What kicks he'll give it to be sure! Ha! ha! ha! that's the way to bring
up boys; makes them hardy. _He's_ not afraid of a little blood. Talk of
his not taking a liking to my business! Why he's always saying to me,
'Papa, when I am big enough to wield your sword, you'll let me cut off
heads, won't you?'

"'Yes, my boy, that you shall,' say I, for I like to give him
encouragement. That's what I call bringing up boys well. I wouldn't
give a fig for one of your milksops that scream or faint at the sight of
blood, not I."

"Humph," muttered my ancestor, and he remained silent for some minutes,
absorbed in meditation.

The headsman whipped on his horse in silence; at length he said to his
guest: "Here we are at last. Look at yon crowd waiting to receive us."

My relative lifted his head, and sure enough there was the mound of
earth erected for the criminal already surrounded by soldiers, close to
which thronged the crowd. All the inhabitants of ----dorf were astir,
and in the crowd our Englishman now recognised his fellow students. A
cry of "_Der Henker! der Henker!_"[3] arose on all sides. Room was at
once made for the headsman and his companion, and Fritz's fellow
students, seeing their friend arrive in a Henker's cart, pushed their
way through the crowd to ask him all sorts of questions.

Fritz descended with difficulty after paying his host for his board and
lodging, and joined his companions. In a few minutes more the criminal's
cart arrived with the "_armer Suender_," or poor sinner, accompanied by
two priests. Loud execrations broke from the mob, amidst which the
wretched being descended from the cart and mounted the scaffold. A dead
silence reigned around. One of the priests whispered something
earnestly in the ear of the condemned, who was as pale as death, and he
took his seat on the chair prepared for him, while an expression of
savage delight appeared on the countenance of the headsman.

He felt all eyes were upon him. The terrible two-handed weapon was
raised aloft, and brandished over the Henker's head. One blow and the
head of the unhappy wretch was severed from his body. Loud cheering rent
the air as the Scharfrichter, holding the head of the criminal by the
hair, presented it to the public gaze. But at this moment a most
unexpected and revolting scene ensued.

Several persons from among the crowd rushed forward toward the scaffold
with mugs, which they filled at the fresh fountain of blood spurting up
from the severed neck of the criminal and drank off at a draught.

My ancestor sickened at so disgusting a spectacle, and demanded the
reason of some bystander. He was informed that those persons believed
human blood fresh from the neck of a beheaded criminal to be an
infallible remedy for epileptic fits. The superstition exists to this
day. Violent exercise after the draught, he was informed, was considered
necessary, in order to effect a cure.

The crowd began to disperse, and my ancestor, leaning on the arm of a
friend, also retired from the scene, disgusted with himself at having
been present at such a spectacle. Before leaving the spot he had time to
notice his host of the previous night start off in his cart towards home
with the promised football.

Our English student was laid up for some little time with his sprained
ankle, and some of his companions remained behind to keep him company,
while others moved onward.

The ankle being cured, my relative continued his foot tour with his
friends, and afterwards returned to the university, where he studied
hard till the time came round for an examination, which he passed, and
shortly afterwards returned to England.

We hear nothing more of my ancestor until ten or twelve years
afterwards, when we again find him in Germany, whither he had been
suddenly called to visit some relative, then in a dying state.

He arrived just in time to close his relative's eyes, after which he saw
him quietly interred in his last home.

This sad office over, he was thinking of returning to England, when, in
turning over the articles of his travelling trunk, he suddenly came
across a German book belonging to a college friend of his, one Ludwig
Engstein, that had been lent him when at the university, and which he
had forgotten to return before leaving college. His friend used to live,
he remembered, in Weimar, and not being far distant, he resolved to
visit that town and to find out his friend's house.

Many changes take place in twelve years, and my ancestor only half
expected to meet his fellow-student again. He might have changed his
residence--he might be dead. Who could tell what might not have happened
to him after so long a lapse of time?

Nevertheless, the Englishman, finding himself on German soil once more,
resolved to enquire after the friend of his youth, and should he succeed
in discovering him, to put him in possession of his book again, and chat
with him over their student days.

Accordingly, he set off for the town of Weimar, and having arrived
there, proceeded with the said book under his arm to the house of his
friend. He had been once on a visit of a fortnight at his friend's house
when a student, and had known his mother and sisters intimately,
therefore he had no difficulty in finding the house again.

The town of Weimar had changed but little during these ten or twelve
years, and once more he found himself on the old familiar doorstep.

"_Ist der Herr Advocat Engstein zu Hause?_" he demanded of an old woman
who answered the door.

"_Ja, mein Herr_," replied the crone. "What name shall I give?"

"Oh, never mind announcing me," said the Englishman; "I'll announce
myself."

So saying, he pushed past the old woman, and knocked at his friend's
study.

"_Herein!_" called out a voice from within, which my ancestor had no
difficulty in recognising as his friend's, and the Englishman entered.

Ludwig Engstein was seated at a table strewed with papers and documents,
and was busily writing. He was still young looking, but his friend Fritz
noticed that his face had assumed a more thoughtful expression than
when at the university. He was now a lawyer in good practice, and the
moment his friend entered he was so busy that he did not even raise his
head.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Advocat," said Fritz, suddenly, "but
I've come to return a book you lent me some time back."

And placing the book on the table, he marched straight out of the room,
shutting the door after him. He then peeped through the key-hole and
listened awhile to note the effect of his abrupt departure on his
friend.

The young lawyer's ear caught his friend's English accent, and at once
lifted his head, though not in time to catch a glimpse of his retreating
figure.

I have said that Engstein recognised Fritz's accent as English, but
little did he suspect that it was his old college friend who had called
upon him and left so suddenly.

He looked surprised, took up the book upon the table to look at the
title, and muttered to himself, "Who can it have been? I do not
recollect now who it was I lent it to, but it must have been a long
while ago."

He was about to ring the bell, and rose for that purpose when he noticed
a face peeping at him through the opening of the door, which was now
ajar.

"Who's that? Come in!" cried the lawyer.

"You are busy, Herr Advocat--another time. _Ich empfaehle mich Ihnen_,"
said my relative, closing the door slowly after him.

But this time Ludwig had a better view of the Englishman's face.

"_Potztausend!_" exclaimed the lawyer; "I shall know that face. _Ach!
lieber freund Fritz._ Can it be really you? _Nein was fuer ein angenehme
Ueberaschung!_" he cried, rushing forward and throwing the door wide
open while he kissed his friend forcibly on both cheeks.

"Sit down here and tell me to what for a fortuitous and
never-to-be-expected train of circumstances I am indebted for this
friendly and to me most agreeable and blissful-past-days-recalling
visit."

Fritz then went on to relate the circumstances of his relative's death,
and how he had been called from home to attend him in his last moments.

"I am sorry for the death of your relation," said Ludwig, "but I cannot
sufficiently express my extreme joy at seeing my old friend Fritz again
after so many years! Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, partly from delight at
meeting his friend, and partly at his friend's mode of introducing
himself.

"What for an eccentric and of you and your strange
countryman-characteristic way of saluting your old friend after so
long!"

And the German again laughed again heartily.

"And what for a busy and for-ever-with-documents-and-papers-occupied
German business man, not even to notice his swiftly entering, and
though long departed from German soil, speedily-vanishing and
almost-forgotten English friend!" retorted Fritz, mimicking the
high-flown, wordy phraseology of the German.

"No, on my honour, Fritz," replied his friend; "not forgotten, I assure
you. Do you know that I had a dream of you only last night. It never
struck me till now. It is strange that I should have dreamed of you just
the night before your unexpected and to me most grateful arrival. How
strange it is that our dreams often prognosticate coming events! It is
as if the mind, partly freed from its material covering during sleep,
received the power of peering with greater accuracy into that
to-us-in-our-waking-state-obscure and unfathomable future which----"

"Precisely; I understand you," answered my relative, cutting short his
friend's philosophic remark; "but let us talk a little over old times;
that is if you are at leisure."

"Yes, to be sure," answered the lawyer; "what I am doing now has no need
of hurry. Oh, by the way, Fritz, talking of old times, do you remember
the night you spent at the house of old Franz Wenzel the Scharfrichter?"

"If I remember? Shall I ever forget it? ask, rather," answered my
ancestor. "It seems to me only yesterday that I witnessed that
execution; and then that Poltergeist--it seems as if I had witnessed his
pranks only last night. I can remember the minutest incident that
happened on that unhallowed evening."

"Well," resumed the lawyer, "poor old Franz is no more."

"What--dead, eh?"

"Ay, murdered. Horrible to relate, his body was discovered minus the
head, which has been carried off or hidden somewhere, for it hasn't been
found yet, but his son recognised the body by the clothes, besides Franz
has never returned home since, so it must be he. There appears to be a
mystery about it, however. The murderer has not as yet been discovered,
neither can people guess at what prompted the murderer to take the life
of a man who was never over-burdened with money. Then the head being cut
off without care being taken to bury the body, and all, too, within a
few steps of the Henker's own house. What could have been the murderer's
object in carrying off the head?"

"A mere act of spite, I suppose," replied the Englishman.

"Well, it may be so," replied his friend, "for it seems that his life
had been often threatened by the friends or relations of those he had
beheaded. It may be as you say, out of spite. The murderer may, by way
of wreaking his vengeance have cut off the head of the man who had put
some friend or relation to death as a trophy, but why just at this
moment? Why not before, as there has been no execution in the town
lately? I believe there has been none since that execution we two
witnessed together. If the avenger had made up his mind to avenge his
friend, why did he not do so at once, instead of waiting these twelve
years?"

"It may be some other private quarrel," replied Fritz. "Are you mixed up
in it?"

"Yes, I shall be at the trial."

"It happened recently it would seem."

"Only two days ago."

"Then the body is still fresh--of course it has been exposed and
examined?"

"Yes, but it was recognised at once by the family. I dare say it is
buried by this time. I am going there to-morrow. If you have time, my
friend, I should be most glad of your company."

"Well, I don't mind giving you a day or so, as I am taking a holiday."

"Agreed, then; we start to-morrow."

The two friends then discoursed until dinner-time, when Ludwig invited
Fritz to share his meal.

The Englishman accepted the offer, and they chatted and laughed the time
away till the evening.

Ludwig lived quite alone. His sisters had married, his mother was dead.
Ludwig was still a bachelor, and so was my ancestor at this time.

"You have not yet put your neck under the yoke it appears," said my
relative to his friend, in allusion to the conjugal tie.

"Not I," replied his friend. "At least, not yet."

"I understand," said Fritz; "not married, but '_verlobt_'."

"No, nor that either."

"No? _Verliebt_, then, perhaps."

"No, neither '_verlobt_' nor '_verliebt_'."

"What!" exclaimed the Englishman, "not even that! Nevertheless, if I
remember rightly, the student Ludwig Engstein was not once averse to the
fair sex."

"Oh, recall not the follies of the past, my friend, or I may retaliate,"
answered the German.

"True, true," said the Englishman. "We all have our weaknesses, and
youth is the season in which they mostly flourish, but now we have both
grown into sober-minded _Philister_,[4] and are more wary."

"Yes, yes," rejoined his friend; "we are not to be caught now by a pair
of blue eyes, flaxen tresses, and a jimp waist, however well these
charms may be set off with the allurements of dress. When men get to our
advanced age, they want 'geist,' and look out for a good housewife who
can cook them a dish of 'sauer kraut' or a 'pfankuchen' when '_das
moos_'[5] is wanting, which is another very useful accessory we desire
to have thrown in."

Here he made a significant gesture with his finger and thumb, intended
to express the counting of money.

"I hope, my friend, you have not become so worldly as to look upon
marriage in the light of bettering yourself," said my relative.

"_Ach! lieber freund_," replied Ludwig. "It is all very well for you
rich milords who have '_loewen_'[6] to talk in that style, but we '_armer
teufeln_' are bound to take even that into consideration."

"This is what the world makes of noble fellows when it has once got them
in its grasp!" sighed my ancestor to himself, and he hastened to change
the conversation.

They then discoursed on various other topics, sitting up to a late hour
of night, until wearied with incessant talking, each retired to rest.

Early the next morning both were dressed and ready to start on their
journey. They reached ----dorf towards evening, and having fixed their
quarters at the very same inn they had put up at on their memorable
tour, they beguiled the time until the morrow by discoursing with the
townspeople about the mysterious murder.

The body, it seems, was not yet underground, but was to be buried the
next day. They accordingly both resolved to examine it.

"The head has not been found yet?" asked Ludwig after supper of the
landlord of the inn, who had come in for a gossip.

"No, sir, not yet," replied their host. "Ah, there are some strange
rumours in the town about that same murder."

"Indeed!" cried Fritz; "what do the people say?"

"Some say one thing, and some another, but all seem to agree that there
is something supernatural about the murder of the Henker."

"Something supernatural! Why--what reason have they to jump at that
conclusion?"

"Well, sir, I don't know if you have ever heard of the Henker's
Poltergeist, but it is a fact well known to all in the township."

"Yes, yes--even we know it. In fact----but never mind, proceed."

"Well, gentlemen, this Poltergeist--this evil spirit--that no doubt was
permitted to haunt the headsman for his sins--for a headsman must of
necessity be a cruel, hard-hearted, unnatural villain to choose such a
profession."

"Well, well--this evil spirit."

"Well then the Scharfrichter, at least, so people say, had sold his soul
to this demon, and when the time came round for him to give up his soul
according to the bargain, he refused, and the demon wrested it from him
by force by cutting off his head and carrying it away with him."

"Oh, but why this strange supposition? Why put down a thing to
supernatural agency before sufficient time has elapsed to investigate
the matter properly? A person is murdered, and the body discovered
without the head, and because the head cannot be found at once, you say
that the devil has run off with it. My dear sir, the thing's absurd."

"Well, we must wait and see what evidence will turn up," said the host.

"Yes, but if everybody merely _waits_ for evidence to turn up instead of
actively searching for it, the matter will come to a standstill," said
the Englishman. "I myself am interested in the murder, as I knew the
Scharfrichter twelve years ago, when I was a student."

"Ah, in that case, sir--of course you would. By-the-by, there is another
murder now talked about besides the Henker's. They seem to be getting in
fashion."

"What! another body?"

"Well, sir, the body isn't exactly found yet, but there is a certain
Count, well-known to be rich, who was taking a foot tour through the
country alone. His family expected him home on a certain day, and as he
hasn't turned up yet, they suspect that he has been robbed and
murdered."

"That may be merely a suspicion. How long has he been missing?"

"Three days, they say."

"Three days! Why, a man doesn't bind himself to a day or two when out on
a foot tour. He may remain another three days, or a week longer, and
then return unhurt."

"Well, sir, it may be as you say, but as the Count was known by his
relations to be a very punctual man, and never to fail in his
appointments, you see, it is natural they should feel uneasy."

"True, especially as three days ago was about the time of the other
murder, and they may get it into their heads that the two murders
occurred in the same night. Was he a married man?"

"No, sir; quite young, they say."

"Humph! When did you say the body of the Henker would be
buried--to-morrow?"

"About ten, I think, sir."

"Ah! then I must be there early, as I want to examine the corpse
myself."

"Oh, decidedly, sir. I will bring you to the place to-morrow in good
time."

Our friends now felt inclined for their night's rest, so their host
showed them into a room with two beds, and wishing them a good night,
left them to undress, and before many minutes had passed both were sound
asleep.

The following morning early our two friends, in the company of their
host, started from the inn to visit the corpse of the murdered
executioner. As they entered the hall where the body lay exposed, Fritz
instantly recognised the clothes; if not the identical vestments worn by
the defunct twelve years ago, at least, of the same colour and material,
being, as I have said before, a doublet and hose of crimson, a colour
that he seems to have been partial to.

"Yes," said Fritz; "these are the Henker's clothes, I've no doubt."

Then, after examining the form laid out before him, he was observed to
start slightly, and he added in a whisper to his friend: "Ludwig, this
is not the body of Franz Wenzel--I'll take my oath of that."

"How! Not Franz Wenzel! Who else should it be, then?"

"That I am not prepared to say, but it is not the body of the Henker;
that is certain. Remember that I passed a night at Wenzel's house;
during that time I took note of the features and figure of the
Scharfrichter, and though twelve years have passed since I saw him, I
can swear----"

"But how! His own family have recognised him. What further proof would
you have?"

Then addressing the landlord, Ludwig said: "Is it true, landlord, that
his own family have recognised the body?"

"Yes, sir; at least, the son did. I don't know whether his wife did or
not, as she has been laid up for ever so long with paralysis, poor soul.
It may be she has never been informed of the murder. One does not like
to frighten invalids, you know."

"Well, well--enough if the corpse has been recognised by the son."

"Yes, sir, he recognised it. It is true, he was a little the worse for
liquor when they brought him before the corpse of his father; but when
is he otherwise, for the matter of that? As sad a young dog as ever
lived that same--inherits all the vices of his father. Nevertheless, who
is there in the township that does not recognise the Henker's red legs?"

"You see, therefore, my friend," said Ludwig, turning to his companion,
"that you are mistaken. Everybody recognises him."

"I see nothing of the sort," replied the Englishman, doggedly; "and I am
still prepared to swear that the corpse before us is not that of Franz
Wenzel."

"My dear Fritz," said Engstein, "you are obstinate. What reason can you
possibly have for saying so?"

"Observe the hands of the corpse," said Fritz, in a low tone. "Do they
look like the hands of an executioner? They are long and delicate. Those
of Franz Wenzel were hard, rough, and hairy, with square stunted
fingers; besides, the headsman wore no ring. This hand, though no ring
is visible, has a depression on the forefinger, as if the owner were in
the constant habit of wearing one."

"Ha! say you so?" exclaimed his friend, and a strange expression came
over his face.

"Then," pursued Fritz, "observe the clothes. Do they look as if they
were made for the body? Franz Wenzel had enormously developed calves,
and his hose fitted tightly. Do these hose fit tightly? Look at these
limbs, that, compared with the Henker's, are but those of a boy."

"Humph! I believe you are right, Fritz, after all," said Engstein; "but
it never would have struck me if you had not pointed it out, as it is so
long ago since I set eyes upon him, and then only for a moment. You took
a more complete survey of him, and your evidence may prove useful. We
will look into the matter together. It is strange, however, that no one
should have been struck in the same manner as yourself."

"Well, I don't know," responded Fritz. "The people in these small
villages are not always of the brightest. Then the headsman's house
being so far away from the town, few people have the opportunity of
taking a minute survey of him. The people here content themselves with
recognising the clothes. Franz's wife is laid up with paralysis, and has
not seen the body, while his son only recognised it when in a drunken
state. Do you call that sufficient evidence to prove that the corpse
before us is that of the executioner? Would you like another proof that
this is no more Franz Wenzel than I am?"

"Well," said Ludwig.

"I remember a scar upon the right wrist that he showed me the night I
put up at his house," said the Englishman; "and which he told me had
been inflicted on him by a piece of broken plate hurled at him by his
Poltergeist. I remember that he said he should carry that mark with him
to the grave. If this is the corpse of Franz Wenzel we shall not fail to
discover the mark."

So saying, he bared the right arm of the corpse and examined it
carefully. No such mark was to be found. The arm was free from scar or
brand, and was delicate in form, almost like that of a maiden's.
Moreover, there was a scanty covering of dark hair upon it, while the
hair on the arms of the executioner, if you remember rightly, was red
and profuse. Even Engstein remarked this, and was now convinced beyond a
doubt that the murdered man was not Franz Wenzel.

"Is any search being made now for the head of the corpse?" demanded
Engstein of his host, who had withdrawn some paces from the two friends,
and consequently had not heard the doubt that had been suddenly cast
upon the public opinion.

"No active search, I believe, sir," was the reply.

"We will make the search ourselves, my friend," whispered Engstein to
Fritz; then added to his host, "My friend and I will take a stroll
together. It is uncertain when we shall return to the inn, but get
something savoury for us against we come back," and he waved his hand
towards his host, who doffed his cap and walked towards his inn, while
our two friends set off together in the direction of the Henker's house,
which they reached in about an hour.

"Yes," said Fritz, "this is the place. I remember it well. What did our
host tell us? That the murder took place only a few paces from the
headsman's door. Let us look well round the spot. How solitary it is!
Just the place where a murder would be committed. What do you say to yon
hollow flanked with brushwood, Ludwig? Is it not a likely place for a
murderer to await his victim?"

"You are right, Fritz, let us make a strict search, but if the head has
been carried far distant----"

"Let us, nevertheless, search well here first," said my ancestor, and
the two friends set to work at once, lifting up every bush and bramble,
following every track, until finally they came upon some blood stains.

An old dried well they discovered not far from this spot. Common sense
would have suggested this as a likely place for the concealment of the
missing head, and there is no doubt that the same idea struck the
inhabitants of ----dorf, for there was evident traces of a great number
of feet in the sand round about it; besides which there was a chip
recently made in the brickwork, which appeared caused by the letting
down of a rope or chain.

This seemed evidence enough for our two friends that the well had
already been searched, and without effect. Further search in that
direction appeared to them to be useless, especially as no bloodstains
were to be found near.

They then proceeded to examine more closely than ever the bushes around,
stamping on the ground to ascertain if a hole had recently been made,
but the ground was firm, and there was nothing to attract suspicion save
a few bloodstains, which, instead of leading up to the well as one would
have imagined, led up to the foot of an old chestnut-tree, and there
seemed to end.

On examining the bark of the tree attentively they observed blood also
on the trunk, but this might have been occasioned by the splashing of
the blood from the neck after the decapitation of the head. There was no
hollow visible in the tree where suspicion would lead one to suppose
that the head could be concealed; nevertheless, when men make up their
minds to make a rigid search, they often pry into the most unlikely and
impossible places, so our friends determined to ascend the tree to
ascertain if by any chance the head could have lodged between its leafy
branches.

Previous to mounting, Ludwig, who, together with his friend, had
provided himself with a long branch wherewith to beat down the bushes,
struck the chestnut-tree a blow on the trunk with the branch he carried,
when a hollow sound proceeded from the tree, and instantly a large owl
fluttered out from the foliage before their faces with its beak and
plumage stained with blood. Blinded with the sunlight, it hovered
distractedly hither and thither for a time, and then vanished with a
screech.

"Did you notice the beak and feathers of the bird, Ludwig?" asked Fritz.

"I did," said Ludwig, "and what is more, I am convinced that the whole
of this seemingly robust chestnut-tree is hollow, and I have not a doubt
that the murderer, aware of the fact, has hidden the head of his victim
at the bottom, and that this fell bird has been gorging itself and its
young upon it ever since."

"That is just my opinion," said Fritz. "Let us climb the tree and look
within."

My ancestor was the first to mount, and having arrived at the point
where the trunk divides itself into branches, he discovered a large hole
thickly covered over with leaves. Sitting upon the edge, with his legs
dangling within the hollow trunk, he proceeded to strike a light, and
having ignited a taper, he commenced carefully to descend into the
hollow of the tree. In his descent, however, his foot slipped, his taper
extinguished itself, and he came down rather suddenly upon his feet. He
soon became aware from a feeble smothered shriek that he was treading
upon a nest of young owlets.

He began to dread lest he might encounter some venemous reptile in this
unexplored region, but taking courage he struck another light and
searched about. He had not looked long when he discovered what appeared
to be a human scalp. He grasped it firmly by the hair, and by the light
of his taper soon knew it to be in reality the head of a man, one half
of which had been already eaten away to the bone.

"Eureka!" exclaimed Fritz, "I have it."

His friend uttered an exclamation of delight, while my relative
clambered up again, and the two friends examined the disgusting treasure
under the fair light of day.

"You see the hair is black," said Fritz. "I hope you are satisfied now
that this is not the head of the Scharfrichter."

"There is no doubt about that now, I think," said Ludwig. "And do you
know, Fritz, now that I scan these features, they seem familiar to me as
my own in the looking-glass. Himmel! Can it be possible!"

"What?" demanded my ancestor, anxiously.

"Why, I'll swear that this is no other than my old friend and
fellow-student, the Count of Waffenburg!" exclaimed Engstein.

"What! Graf von Waffenburg! Is it really so? I knew him well. Let me
examine the features," said Fritz.

"Yes, it is he beyond a doubt," said Ludwig. "We had a quarrel once, and
I wounded him in the cheek. Here is the wound I myself inflicted; but
afterwards we became staunch friends."

"True," said Fritz. "I remember the duel well, being present myself on
the occasion. What a curious coincidence! It is certainly he, and no
other. The more I look at the features the more satisfied I am. Let us
hasten with this proof of the identity of the murdered man to the
township and spread abroad the news of the murder of the count. His
relations will then come to claim his body."

The two friends then made a covering of chestnut leaves for the head,
and tying it up in a handkerchief, retraced their steps towards the
township, discoursing on the cunning of the murderer, who appeared to
them to be no other than the Scharfrichter himself.

"For when a body is found minus the head," argued Ludwig, "and dressed
in the clothes of another man, and that other man is nowhere to be
found, it follows as a matter of course that the man missing must be the
murderer."

"Yes," said the Englishman, "unless the murdered man had previously
stolen the clothes of another, and then afterwards been murdered by some
unknown assassin."

"But when the deceased has been proved beyond a doubt to be the Graf von
Waffenburg, a man whose name is above so ridiculous a suspicion," said
Engstein.

"Oh, of course the blackest suspicion attaches itself to Wenzel," said
Fritz; "yet, in the case of a mysterious murder, evidence, occasionally
of so startling and unexpected a nature, turns up as to completely alter
the state of the case.

"The headsman is missing, and a corpse has been found dressed in his
clothes. We presume, therefore, that _he_ is the murderer, but if after
a time the Henker's corpse should also be found----"

"Oh, in that case," said Ludwig, "the aspect of the whole affair would
be changed. Well, we must wait for further evidence. To-morrow the case
will begin in court, and my services will be required. I doubt not
before long that sufficient light will be thrown on the subject to
enable us to discover the true murderer."

Thus our two friends chatted by the way, till in due time they arrived
at the township, and having deposited the head of the murdered man at
the town hall, where the body had been exposed, they spread abroad the
result of their expedition, and clearly proved to the somewhat obtuse
inhabitants their error.

On the following morning, then, the trial began. The court was crowded
to suffocation. Evidence of a very extraordinary nature had turned up,
so it was said, and Ludwig Engstein, attired in his professional robes,
was preparing to conduct the case.

My ancestor was amongst the crowd, and had placed himself as near as he
possibly could to his friend.

"Call in Gottlieb Kraeger," cried the examiner.

A hoary peasant entered the witness-box, and the examination proceeded
in this wise:

"You are a farmer from the village of ----, are you not?"

"I am."

"Just inform us, if you please, what you were doing on the night of the
murder."

"I was returning home after selling some cattle at the ----dorf market,
and it was about midnight when I passed close to the Henker's cottage. I
heard cries and groans as of someone being murdered not far off. I
stopped and listened for a moment, then set off on tip-toe to the spot
whence the sounds proceeded. It was very dark, and the groans at length
ceased.

"I placed myself behind some brushwood to watch who should issue from
the copse, when a friar passed me."

"Stay, are you quite sure the friar came from the very spot from whence
you heard the groans?"

"Well, as to swearing to it, I don't know, but I heard the sound as of
brushwood being trampled under foot, and the next instant the friar
passed close to me. He did not appear to observe me, but moved onward in
the direction of the village of Ahlden."

"Did you follow him or take any further notice of him?"

"To say the truth, I was too frightened to move, but I kept my eye on
him as far as I could see him."

"But you tell me it was very dark."

"Just at that moment the moon had burst from behind the clouds, and
enabled me to see distinctly."

"Well, did you observe anything peculiar in the manner or gait of the
friar?"

"Yes; after he had passed me some ten paces he halted, as if he were
counting money, after which he threw away something that glittered in
the moonlight and then walked on. I followed stealthily behind to
discover what it was that he had thrown away, when I picked up this."

The witness held up a long silk purse knitted with silver beads.

"Give it to me--so--can you recollect anything else about this friar?
Could you manage to catch a glimpse of his face?"

"No, I could not exactly distinguish the features, but----"

"But what?"

"I observed a peculiar patch in his amice over the left shoulder."

"Should you be able to swear to the amice?"

"Aye, that I should, among a thousand."

"Is this the amice of the friar you saw issue from the copse?" asked
Ludwig, holding up a patched amice such as is worn by the Capuchin
friars.

"The very same, I'll swear to it."

"Take care, you are on your oath."

"Well, if it is not the same, it is one made after the same fashion,
patch and all complete. I'll swear to the shape of the patch, for I
observed the garment well."

"Enough; you may retire. Call in Hans Schultz."

A dapper little man with oiled hair and closely-shaven face entered the
court, and having taken his post at the witness-box, gave his evidence
as follows:--

"I am by profession a barber. The morning after the murder I was shaving
an elderly gentleman in my shop. I suggested that a little hair dye
would improve his personal appearance, and offered him a bottle. He
refused to buy it, so I placed it on a table behind me, and continued to
shave him. Whilst I was recommending the hair dye to my customer I
noticed a Capuchin friar pass several times in front of my shop. He
appeared to be listening to our conversation.

"Shortly afterwards he entered the shop and begged for alms for the
convent. I gave him a kreuzer, and after he had chatted a little he left
the shop. I could not see his face well, as he kept it covered with his
hood, but I remember that he had a red beard. He had hardly left my shop
when on looking on the table behind me I found the bottle of hair dye
gone. No one else but the friar and my customer had entered the shop
since I laid the bottle down upon the table, yet I could not suspect my
customer of having stolen the bottle, and I was much at a loss to
conceive what a Capuchin friar should want with hair dye.

"I concluded, therefore, that I must have been mistaken, and must have
laid the bottle down somewhere else without thinking, so I thought no
more of it.

"On the same day I was called to cut the hair of a gentleman at the
other end of the village, when I passed a friar who appeared to be the
same as he who not long ago had entered my shop. I looked at him in the
face, but he had a black beard. I could have sworn it was the same, for
his amice was patched in a peculiar manner on the shoulder, as was that
of the first friar."

"Is this the amice that the friar wore?" asked Engstein, holding up the
patched garment.

"It is like it. I could all but swear to it."

"Did you address him when you met him, as you thought, a second time?"

"I was about to do so, but he pulled out his beads, and began counting
them. Not liking to disturb him in his devotions, I passed on, thinking
that after all I might have been deceived."

"That is sufficient, you may go."

The little barber left the court, and another witness was called for.

"Your name?"

"Max Offenbrunnen."

"Profession?"

"I am host of the Bear Inn in the village of M----."

"Can you tell us anything that happened at your inn within this last
week?"

"Yes; three days after the murder a Capuchin friar stopped at my inn and
called for a tankard of beer. He kept his hood down all the time, so
that I could not see his face, but I remember that he had a black beard,
and I also noticed that he had a patch in his amice over one shoulder of
rather an unusual form."

The patched garment was held up again in court, and recognised also by
the third witness, after which he proceeded as follows:--

"He called for more beer, and I began to enter into conversation with
him and asked him where he came from. He told me from a Capuchin convent
at W----, about a mile off. Just at that moment another friar, an old
friend of mine, passed my inn, who belonged to the aforementioned
convent.

"'Then you know each other,' said I to my friend the second friar, and I
sought to bring them together, but my friend, after eyeing the former
from head to foot, denied all knowledge of him. The first friar then
somewhat confusedly stammered an excuse, saying that he had spoken
without thinking, but that he had intended to say St. Mary's, another
Capuchin convent, six miles further off. Then my friend the second friar
said that he knew all the friars at St. Mary's, but still denied that he
knew this one.

"The former began to mumble that he had only lately arrived, and began
to turn the conversation. My friend whispered to me that he didn't
believe he was a friar at all, but someone in disguise. After my friend
had left, the former friar called for more beer (I never saw a friar
drink so much beer as this one), and being curious to discover who the
man was I tried to draw him out. At first he answered cautiously, but
after drinking deeper he became less cautious and more confidential, but
his utterance was now thick and unintelligible. He drew his chair closer
to mine, and seemed about to let me into some secret, when some other
customers of mine at the next table began to talk about the murder.

"I noticed that the would-be friar started, and instead of continuing
his conversation with me, got up suddenly and muttered some excuse for
taking his departure. He paid me hurriedly by lying down a Reichsgulden,
saying that whatever change there might be I might keep for myself. He
had hardly left my house when certain of the guard who had been on the
track of the murderer stopped to question him, and finding he could give
no satisfactory account of himself, took him into custody."

Other witnesses were then examined in their turn, among which were
certain members of the family of the murdered count, and a certain
Fraulein von Berlichingen, his affianced bride, all of whom recognised
the body to be that of the missing Graf von Waffenburg. The silken purse
with silver beads picked up by the first witness was also recognised by
Fraulein von Berlichingen as having been knitted by herself and
presented by her to her lover.

The remains of the murdered count were decently interred. The melancholy
event caused no small commotion in the neighbourhood. The funeral was
followed by a large crowd of relatives and intimate friends, among which
were our two heroes Fritz and Ludwig. The grief of Fraulein von
Berlichingen was too great to allow her to appear at the funeral. She
was inconsolable, and shortly afterwards entered a convent.

But to return to the trial.

The prisoner was now conducted into court. He was a man somewhat passed
middle-age, though his frame was square built and powerful, and his
hair, beard, and eyebrows were of a deep black, yet an observer might
have noticed that whenever a ray of sunlight entered the court and shone
full in the face of the prisoner that his hair and beard turned to a
glowing purple, demonstrating beyond a doubt the presence of dye. Those
who chanced to be stationed near the prisoner declared afterwards that
the hairs of his head towards the roots were of a bright red, and many
were they who recognised, in spite of this disguise, the person of
Franz Wenzel, the executioner.

The prisoner, however, when examined, gave his name as Adolf Schmidt,
and denied stoutly that he was Franz Wenzel, or to having ever had
dealings with such a person.

He denied having stolen a bottle of hair dye for the purpose of
disguising himself, and maintained that he was an honest citizen who had
donned a holy garb for penitence, which had been imposed upon him by his
father confessor.

The prisoner was then asked if such were the case, why he had tried to
deceive the host of the Bear Inn and the Capuchin friar when they asked
him whence he came. To this the prisoner replied that he loved not to
gratify the idle curiosity of others respecting his private affairs.
Ludwig Engstein then asked the prisoner how he came in possession of the
friar's amice, for which he responded that it had been lent him some
time ago by his father confessor, who had obtained it from some Capuchin
friar of his acquaintance.

When asked for particulars concerning his father confessor, he replied
vaguely and confusedly, and when begged to be more explicit, he refused,
saying he had private reasons for not divulging the affairs of his
friends.

Other witnesses were then called for, who stated that they had been
robbed of money and various sorts of ware more than once within the
last three years, about half a (German) mile from the house of the
Scharfrichter by a man who wore a mask, and who corresponded in height
and width of person to the prisoner. Among these latter was a Jew
pedlar, who three years ago had been robbed of a large sum and various
articles of clothing, among which he declared was the identical friar's
amice held up in court, and which he perfectly remembered to have
patched himself.

This and such like evidence naturally went very much against the
prisoner; neither will it be wondered at that his disguise was easily
seen through, and his person recognised as that of Franz Wenzel, the
executioner. He was consequently found guilty of wilful murder and
finally condemned to be beheaded. The day of the execution was fixed,
and the prisoner conducted to the condemned cell.

We have mentioned before in an early part of this story that the
profession of the headsman was hereditary, that the law forced the son
of an executioner to follow in the steps of his father.

The unhappy wretch then, according to this law, was doomed to lose his
life at the hands of his own son. Much speculation, however, among the
inhabitants of ----dorf had arisen as to whether the law would actually
enforce so rigorous a decree, and whether the son of the Scharfrichter
would rebel against it if it did, or bow submissively to so harsh and
unfeeling an order.

Some there were who thought that an exception ought to be made in this
case, and a new Henker selected, as it was hard for the son to suffer
for the crimes of the father; but even if the law were disposed to be
lenient, who was the new aspirant to be? Who would like to come forward
to offer his services?

The office of the Scharfrichter was in such bad odour that it would be
difficult to find a man in the whole village who could be persuaded to
undertake the task, even by the offer of a large reward.

However, after much speculation and gossip, the inhabitants came to the
conclusion that everything might be done with money, and that someone
would be certainly found to accept the bribe.

Others began to spread throughout the village that the man had already
been found, and ventured to point out such or such a citizen as the new
practitioner. Meanwhile the law had remained passive and had not
troubled itself to make an exception in the case, and the burgomaster
who had the superintendence of such affairs was far too phlegmatic and
indifferent even to give the matter a thought.

He knew that an execution had to take place, that someone would be paid
for amputating the head of the criminal, but whether it was to be one
man's duty or another's was all the same to him.

The headsman's trade was hereditary, and he (the burgomaster) had never
heard of any such innovation as that of selecting a new headsman during
the lifetime of the rightful heir; therefore, as a matter of course,
the young Scharfrichter was to decapitate his own father, and there was
an end of the matter.

What to him were the feelings of the son at being forced to obey so
unnatural a dictate? He was paid for it like anyone else, and very good
pay he got, too.

What to him was the additional anguish of the criminal at being executed
by his own son? He knew well enough that his son would step into his
shoes when he himself should be deprived of office, and if he didn't
like to lose his head at the hands of his own son, he ought to have
reflected before he committed the murder.

Now, the burgomaster had a confidential servant, one Heinrich Goebel, a
man of heartless and revengeful nature, who cherished an ill-will
against the prisoner's son for having dared to supplant him in the
affections of a certain blue-eyed damsel, the daughter of a
tavern-keeper in the village.

The father of the lady in question was not over pleased with the
attentions of either of these individuals towards his Lieschen, one of
the aspirants for his daughter's hand being a drunkard, the son of an
executioner, who besides the stigma inevitably attached to his character
for life, would be obliged to maintain his daughter by the scanty
proceeds of his loathsome profession.

The other, a man of notoriously bad character, and dependent upon the
wages he received from his master for a living. Of the two, the maid
herself decidedly favoured Leo Wenzel, the young headsman, and seeing
this, Heinrich Goebel inwardly resolved to take vengeance on his rival
upon the first opportunity.

Whilst plotting vengeance thus in his heart, Goebel sought his master and
shaped his conversation in this wise:

"Herr Buergermeister, this will be a somewhat difficult business, this
execution."

"How so?" inquired his master.

"Why, according to law," answered his servant, "young Leo will have to
take the life of his own father."

"Well, what of that?" said the burgomaster.

"They say he is a young man of spirit, and he might refuse to take his
father's life."

"Refuse! would he? The law will force him."

"But if he is obstinate and persists? He is a young man of spirit."

"Ugh! I hate these young men of spirit, they are always making trouble
and subverting order. Well, if he makes a disturbance, he will be
imprisoned, that's all."

"Yes, yes, of course; but for all that, if he positively refuses to lift
his arm against his father, the law cannot force him to do it."

"Well, not exactly, but--but what has put it into your head that he
_will_ refuse? He will be rewarded for his services."

"But if he could not be tempted by a reward, if by chance he should
refuse at the last moment to act the part of executioner towards his
own father, and no one should be found to accept the post--why, in that
case, if _my_ services should be accepted, I should be most glad to
officiate."

"What, _you_, Heinrich! _you_ turn Scharfrichter! Ha! ha!--this is
something quite new. I was not aware that that was anything in your
line."

"Well, sir, knowing your dislike to a disturbance among the populace (a
thing very likely to occur if the headsman should not be found at his
post)--rather than such an old vagabond as Franz Wenzel should get off
in the confusion, why, I'll undertake the job myself."

"You would? Ha! ha!--but stay, if there _should_ be a disturbance (which
Heaven forfend, as any excitement sadly upsets my digestion), I am not
so sure that I should like my servant to take upon himself the office of
Scharfrichter, for the odium of the populace that he would naturally
incur would reflect likewise upon his master, and----"

"Well, sir, if you fear that, I should then advise another line of
conduct."

"Indeed! What may that be?"

"To keep young Leo in ignorance that it is his father that he is called
upon to execute. Listen to me! The Scharfrichter's house is a mile
distant; our villagers have a superstitious dread of the spot, and are
not likely yet to have communicated with the young man, and I know that
he hasn't been in the township since he was last called to swear to the
identity of the murdered man, then commonly believed to be his father.
You will recollect that he identified the corpse as that of his father.
In his lonely dwelling, he can have heard nothing of the trial, and is
consequently still under the impression that it is his father that has
been murdered.

"Now, if you will leave the matter to me I will contrive that he shall
not be undeceived until too late."

"Yes; but how?"

"First of all I will go there myself with the news that the murderer of
his father has been arrested, that the day has been fixed for his
execution, and that he will have the pleasure of trying his hand for the
first time in his life on his father's murderer. Everything will go
straight, provided he has as yet heard nothing from other tongues."

"But if he has?"

"Then our plan is frustrated; but I go to ascertain that, and if he has
not, the greatest care must be taken that no one communicates with him
from this town, to which end you should give orders for the gates of the
town to be closed for some days, under the excuse that you have been
robbed of certain valuables, and have taken this precaution to catch the
thief. It would be as well, perhaps, to hurry on the execution as
quickly as possible."

"Well, but there is one point I don't understand. Supposing all to go on
smoothly, as you seem so confident that it will, won't the young man
recognise his father when led up to the scaffold in the 'poor sinner's'
cart, and afterwards takes his seat on the chair placed for him?"

"There is our great difficulty, but let us hope for the best. The
prisoner, as you know, took the precaution to dye his red head black in
order to escape recognition. This will aid our project. The 'poor
sinner's' garb that he will don the morning of the execution will also
help the disguise. Young Leo is but a superficial observer, and before
he has well taken note of the criminal his head will be off."

"You are very hopeful as to the success of your scheme, but if the
father, in his last moments, makes himself known to his son--should rush
into his arms to embrace him and say: 'My son, do you not know me? I am
your father--you will not have the heart to execute your own father, the
author of your existence.'"

"We must prevent this. Let a handkerchief be tied round his jaw that he
cannot open his mouth to speak. This, after all, will be nothing more
than is usually done to catch hold of the head in order to exhibit it to
the public after decapitation, the only difference being that it is
generally tied on after the criminal has taken his seat on the scaffold,
while in this case it will be done before. Another bandage should be
bound round his eyes at the same time, which is also customary; thus a
great portion of the prisoner's face will be hidden. His arms will be
pinioned firmly to his sides, so as to render all attempt at the removal
of the bandage impossible, and everything will pass off quietly."

"Well, well, you're a queer dog. See that it _does_ pass off quietly,
that's all, and don't bother me any more about it. Mind, I leave the
matter entirely in your hands."

"Never fear, sir, I am off at once to the house of the Scharfrichter;
trust everything to me. Stay, you had better issue an order for the
gates of the town to be closed at once. You can give me a pass before I
start, or they will shut me out with the rest."

"True; just wait one moment. Here--the pen and ink--so now be off as
fast as you can."

Off started the servant of the burgomaster with the order to the
gatekeeper to close the gates, and the pass which was to admit none but
himself, and after the gatekeeper had received the necessary
instructions, Heinrich passed rapidly through the gates and directed his
steps towards the house of the Scharfrichter. He chuckled to himself as
he contemplated the success of his scheme.

"What would the death of his father at my hands be to him to the
discovery of having taken his father's life himself! That will be
revenge indeed! Now to the fulfilment of my scheme there is no
obstacle."

He had proceeded about an English mile on his way when, suddenly lifting
his eyes, he descried in the distance the figure of an aged man, who
appeared to be going the same road as himself. He hastened his steps,
and soon overtook the veteran, whom he now recognised as one of his
fellow citizens, a certain Gustav Meyer, and known to be one of the
greatest gossips in the neighbourhood.

"Good-day, Gustav," said Goebel, with forced good humour. "Where are you
off to on those venerable pins of yours?"

"Ach! lieber, freund Goebel!" exclaimed the loquacious old man; "how are
you? I have not seen you for an age. You have grown proud since you have
been in the burgomaster's service, and forget that it was I who got you
the situation, for you never come to see me now, though we used to be
such cronies, you know. But you young folks never think it worth while
to give us old fogies a call to see how we are. Why, I might be dead and
buried for all you would know about it, and even if you did hear of it,
I suppose it would be all the same to you, eh?

"Well, well, 'ingratitude is the reward of the world,' as the proverb
says, and we old fogies with one foot in the grave and the other about
to follow must make up our minds to be put on the shelf. We all have our
turn; I have had mine, you are having yours, but old age comes at last,
and then there is an end of us all, even to the best of us. Even I have
been young, friend Goebel. Ha! ha! You'd hardly think so to look at me
now with these silvery locks and tottering limbs. I say you'd hardly
think so now, would you, eh? Now, how many years should you think I
could count, friend Goebel, tell me?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Goebel, impatiently.

"I am hard upon ninety years old, and all tell me that I carry my years
well. I may say I haven't had a day's illness in all my life. I have
nearly all my teeth yet, and----"

"I have no doubt all you say is very true, my friend," interrupted
Goebel; "but you have hardly answered my question satisfactorily yet. I
asked you where you were going?"

"Friend Goebel," said the old man, "now I'll just tell you what I propose
doing this morning, just by way of stretching my old limbs, seeing that
I have not had a walk for an age. It does old folks good to go out for a
stroll every now and then in the country. Too much staying at home over
the fire isn't good, even for the likes of me."

"Well, well," broke in Goebel, beginning to lose all patience. "I asked
you where you were going."

"Did you? Ah yes, I had nearly forgot. We old folks are apt to lose our
memories at times, you know, my friend, so you young folks ought to have
compassion on us, and recollect that we were once like you, and that you
will one day become like us, therefore----"

"This is insufferable," burst out Goebel, whose forbearance was quite at
an end. "I ask you a plain question, and I expect a plain answer. I
repeat the question--Where are you going?"

"Hoity, toity! friend Goebel," cried the old man, in great surprise.
"What! so impatient with your old friend Gustav! Don't you remember how
often I have taken you upon my knee and danced you? We used to be great
friends then. Don't you recollect? But I suppose you have forgotten all
that now, eh?--since you have become a man. Let me see, how long ago
must that be? Full thirty years ago, if it's a day, I'll warrant."

"Will you, or will you not, give me a plain answer to a plain question.
Tell me where you are going?" cried Goebel, now quite furious, and
shaking the old man violently by both shoulders.

"Softly, softly! friend Goebel," cried the veteran, much alarmed. "Save
my life. Prithee, save my life, and I will tell you where I am going, if
you will have patience."

"Well, tell me at once, and let us have no more chattering," said Goebel,
leaving go his hold.

"Well, in the first place, then," began old Gustav, recovering
himself--"in the first place----but stay, upon second thoughts, I'll
just leave you to guess where I am going. Now, where do you think?"

"Dotard, have a care!" cried Goebel, threateningly, "and trifle with me
no longer. Tell me where you are going, or----"

"Well, well, friend Goebel, I'll tell you; don't be afraid, don't let two
such old friends as we are quarrel for a trifle--I'll tell you where I
am going, although I must say that I think you seem to take an uncommon
interest in the doings of an old man like me, who, though he be an old
friend----"

"Take care now!"

"Well, well, my friend, wait one moment; I'll tell you. I told you
before that I would tell you, and I will be as good as my word, if you
will have one moment's patience--for patience, friend Goebel, patience, I
say, is a virtue that we ought all to cultivate, and which we all of us
more or less are sadly wanting in. But to proceed; though, after all, my
friend, what hurry can you possibly have to learn so simple a fact? It
appears to me that the world has grown wondrously impatient since my
time; that is, if everybody is like you, but as I said before----"

"Tell me! tell me!" screamed Goebel, seizing his venerable friend a
second time by the shoulders.

"Well, then, my friend," said Gustav, drawing out his words at a most
provoking length, "if I _must_ tell you, and you are quite sure that you
have sufficient patience to listen to me, learn that I am going to pay a
visit at the house of the Scharfrichter, to have a quiet little gossip.
You know I am fond of a nice little gossip. Well, I am just going to
have a little chat with that poor young man Leo Wenzel. What do you
think? He doesn't know yet that his father is the real murderer, for he
lives so far off and no one ever goes near the house to tell him the
news, and he is still under the delusion that his father has been
murdered and that the assassin has not yet been caught. Poor young man,
I shall have to break the news very gently to him, for he will feel it
deeply. He must know the truth sooner or later, so I have taken upon
myself to be the first to communicate the unwelcome news.

"According to the law he will be obliged to take the life of his own
father. It will be a dreadful blow to him, poor boy, and I am sure I
don't know how he will be induced to act executioner in the present
instance. I know not if the law in this case will make an exception and
choose someone else in his place; it will be very hard upon him if the
law really should insist on being carried out to the very letter. Let us
hope that mercy will be shown to the son, but in any case it is a very
dreadful affair, so I thought I would just go to comfort him a little,
to see how he takes the matter, and give him courage, in case----"

"I thought as much!" muttered Goebel to himself; then aloud to his
friend, "So that is where you are going is it? Ah, then I will save you
the trouble. Being a matter of no importance, you need not be in a
hurry. Listen to me; my master has lost certain valuables, and has given
orders for the gates of the town to be closed until he has discovered
the thief, and has strictly commanded me to arrest any person I might
find leaving the town, until his valuables shall have been recovered. I
should be sorry to suspect you, but as the law respects the person of no
man, it is my painful duty to take you back to the town. Let us have no
more cackling or resistance, but come at once."

"But, my dear friend Goebel!" pleaded the veteran, "you surely can't
suspect--you will not for one moment imagine--nay, if you have any doubt
of my honesty search me. I can assure it will be useless, I am
innocent."

"If you are innocent, you will be proved so in due time, meanwhile I
have orders----"

"But, friend Goebel, I assure you again and again upon my oath that I
have taken nothing. There--look--search me all over, if you will, and
let me go in peace. Is not my character enough? Am I not well known in
----dorf? Have I ever been known to touch my neighbour's goods? Pray
satisfy yourself that I have taken nothing, and let me go. Why trouble
yourself to bring back a man to the town to be searched whom you know to
be innocent. Besides, it will upset my plan. I wouldn't miss my little
gossip with young Leo for all the world just at this moment. Just
consider, my friend----"

"Cease your cackling and come along with me!" shouted Goebel, seizing him
by the collar and dragging him forcibly back towards the town.

"But--but----" stammered the astonished and terrified old man.

"But me no buts, but do my bidding instantly, Sir Driveller, or it will
be the worse for you."

So saying, he dragged his old friend home again at a hurried pace,
regardless of his tottering limbs and of his prayers and entreaties.

It was just mid day, and the sun shone hot, when Goebel returned to the
township, perspiring at every pore, and deposited his charge, more dead
than alive, within the walls of ----dorf. He then retraced his steps
under the broiling sun, cursing and swearing as he went at his plan
having been so nearly frustrated by the cackling gossip of an old
dotard.

"_Potz--Himmel, Donnerwetter, Schock, Schwerer, Noth, noch mal!_" he
muttered to himself. "A pretty obstacle in my path! _Tausend Teufel!_ I
had a mind to dash his brains out on the spot, the old idiot, for his
drivelling."

With these and such like elaborately strung together oaths the servant
of the burgomaster beguiled the time, until at length he arrived at the
door of the Scharfrichter's house, where he discovered young Leo at work
in his garden. The young executioner looked up at the sound of stranger
footsteps, and though he would rather the visitor had been anyone else
than his rival, yet upon the whole he was not displeased to see a human
face after so long. His manner even warmed towards his visitor when he
saw him advance with a smile on his face and an extended hand.

"Leo," began Heinrich Goebel with feigned friendship, "we have long been
enemies, but everything has an end. I have now come to offer you my hand
in friendship, for henceforth we are no longer rivals, but friends.
Lieschen, think of her no more. Her father positively refuses to give
her to either of us, so she has at length plighted her troth to another
man."

"What! Lieschen? Impossible!" cried Leo, mopping his forehead.

"Ay, my friend, it is too true; nay, pray calm yourself. I, too, loved
her as you did, but since the matter has turned out thus, I have made
up my mind to console myself by paying my addresses to another as soon
as possible."

"You never _could_ have loved her as I loved her," gasped out Leo, as he
staggered for support against the garden wall.

"Well, well, my friend, I knew you would feel the blow, but calm
yourself and dismiss these gloomy thoughts. I have better news than that
in store for you."

"What care I for news now that _she_ has deserted me?" groaned Leo
distractedly.

"Come, come now, let me comfort you a little," said Goebel. "What do you
think? _The murderer of your father has been discovered!_"

"What do I hear? Caught? Safe?"

"Ay, the murder has been proved, and the murderer condemned to die by
the sword. The execution has been fixed for the day after to-morrow. It
will take place at daybreak as usual, and you will have the satisfaction
of taking vengeance on your father's murderer with your own hands. You
will wield your father's sword for the first time in your life before an
admiring crowd. Think of that."

"Vengeance at last!" cried the young headsman, with flushed face and
distorted features. "Vengeance at last! Thank God! thank God!"

"Bravo, old friend!" cried Goebel, slapping his heartily detested rival
on the shoulder in the friendliest manner possible. "I knew you would
take heart at this piece of news. Come, let us sit down together and
console ourselves."

Leo, then entering the house, took from a cupboard a large bottle of
schnaps and two glasses. The two companions, seating themselves, began
to drink deeply and to chat incessantly, the subject of the discourse
being the particulars of the murder according to the version of Goebel.
We need hardly say that the whole was a fabrication of Heinrich's own
brain. At length the servant of the burgomaster rose to take his
departure, and having enjoined his rival to be of good cheer, bent his
steps again towards the township, chuckling by the way at his own
devices. Arrived at the gates of the town, he showed his pass, and was
permitted to enter without let or hindrance. Hurrying through the
streets until he reached the burgomaster's house, he presented himself
before that worthy, whom he found seated at a table before a plate of
sausage, and in the act of draining to the dregs an enormous tankard of
beer.

"Well, what news?" asked his master.

"Oh! the very best; he took the bait greedily. It was quite a pleasure
to see how he enjoyed the news. No one had been before me, so I had him
all to myself. The matter will now go off as smoothly as could be
desired; but, by the saints! I had a narrow escape of failure."

"Indeed! How was that?"

"When I was nearly half way to the Scharfrichter's house, who should I
see just ahead of me but that cursed old gossip, Gustav Meyer. I stopped
him and asked him where he was going. _Potztausend!_ what a chatterbox!
I thought I should not get an answer out of him before nightfall, and
when I did, where do you think he _was_ going? Why, straight to the
house of the Henker to have a quiet chat with young Leo upon the subject
of the murder, and reveal to him all that I had taken such pains to keep
secret. He seemed delighted at the idea of being the first to deliver
the news."

The burgomaster laughed heartily.

"Well, what did you do?" said he, at length.

"What did I do! I told him his presence was particularly wanted at the
township, and seizing him by the collar, dragged him all the way back
again, regardless of his cackling. I informed him that you had lost some
valuables, and had given me orders to arrest anyone leaving the town on
suspicion. He was indignant at the charge. Protested, declared his
innocence, and spoke of the high character he had always borne in the
town, etc., etc. He seemed in despair at being deprived of his little
gossip with the Henker's son, and begged and entreated me to let him
have it out quietly; but, deaf to all his chattering, I dragged him home
again in spite of himself, and lodged him safely within the gates of the
town. _Donner und Blitzen!_ but it was enough to raise the bile of a
saint to listen to the wanderings of that antique driveller, to say
nothing of having one's plan so nearly frustrated; by such a worm as
that too!"

Here and again the burgomaster burst into a loud laugh, in which Goebel,
in spite of himself, joined.

"Ah," said he, at length recovering himself, "there is one thing yet to
be done. I must go to the jailor of the prison with private orders from
you to prevent the prisoner having an interview with his son, should he
ask for one. This accomplished, there will be no more difficulty."

"Ah, yes," said the burgomaster, "it would be as well. But what an
interest you seem to take in this case, Heinrich! One would imagine that
you had a private grudge against the prisoner."

"I like to see things well done," was the reply, and the servant shortly
after left the presence of his master.

A great sensation was caused in ----dorf when it was given out that the
execution had been hurried on a week, and much speculation arose as to
what could have been the burgomaster's motive. Half the town already
knew by the tongue of old Gustav of his having been arrested by the
servant of the burgomaster on suspicion of having robbed his master of
certain valuables just at the very time when he (Gustav) was
contemplating the pleasure he would have in being the first to
communicate the melancholy tidings of the murder to the young headsman.
They therefore concluded that Leo must still be in ignorance of the real
state of the case. The other half of ----dorf, however, never gave a
thought as to whether he knew it or not; enough for them that someone
was going to be beheaded and that they should have a spectacle to vary
the monotony of their humdrum lives.

At length the fatal day arrived. The gates of the town were thrown open
(for the servant of the burgomaster gave out that the thief had been
discovered and the valuables regained), and now all ----dorf was in an
uproar, while crowds of peasants from all the surrounding villages
flocked to witness the bloody spectacle.

The scaffold, or the mound of earth which was to serve as such, had been
erected half way between the township and the house of the executioner,
and was already surrounded by a file of soldiers, around which thronged
the mob so closely that they were every now and then repulsed by the
military. From the sea of human heads that inundated the place of
execution resounded a hum of voices, in which salutations, sallies, bad
language, coarse jokes, and coarser laughter, together with murmurs and
imprecations, and an occasional scream from the women when the crowd
pressed too closely, were confusedly mingled, and resembled at a little
distance the bleating of an immense flock of sheep. Classes of all sorts
were jostled together, from the lowest grade of handwerksbursch to the
university student. There were pretty peasant girls in their holiday
costumes, and sturdy peasants from all parts of the country. There were
Jew hawkers, sharpers, pickpockets, ruffianly bullies, cripples, and
mendicants. There were mothers with young children in their arms, which
latter contributed their feeble cries to the general buzz.

All had turned out to feast their eyes upon the death of a fellow
mortal. Nor was this an ordinary execution like that described in an
earlier part of this story. No; this was an exceptional case--something
out of the common way, a sublimer spectacle.

In this case the condemned was no obscure handwerksbursch, of whose
career the multitude knew nothing, and cared as little about. The
criminal was no less a man than Franz Wenzel, the far-famed
Scharfrichter, who had amputated the heads of "poor sinners" for the
last thirty or forty years, and was now doomed to lose his own.

The interest in the case was considerably heightened when it was known
that the veteran executioner was to be operated upon by the hands of his
own son. Then the facts of the murder were so strange, so unnatural.
Fancy the cunning of that hardened old sinner, the ex-headsman, who,
according to his own confession, made in prison the day before the
execution, had waylaid, robbed, and murdered the innocent Count of
Waffenburg, a scion of one of the most wealthy and respected noble
families for miles round, disguised as a Capuchin friar, and in order to
conceal the identity of the murdered man, had dissevered the head of the
corpse, which he had endeavoured to hide for ever from the eye of man by
throwing it into the trunk of a hollow chestnut tree. Then having
stripped the corpse of its clothes, and afterwards having stripped
himself of his outer garments, he dressed up the corpse of his victim in
his own well known crimson-coloured doublet and hose, thereby conveying
the idea to the public mind that the corpse found was his own, after
which, returning to his house close by, having again donned the friar's
habit, he deposited the sword usually set apart for the beheading of
criminals, and in this case used for amputating the head of the murdered
count, and wiping it well, he lighted a fire on his hearth where he
burned one by one the habiliments of his victim. He then left his house
a second time, still disguised as a friar and laden with his ill-gotten
treasure, passed once more the scene of the murder and wandered all
night in the direction of ----. How strange the evidence, too, that
convicted him, the theft of the bottle of hair dye, the remarkable patch
on his amice. Every particular of the murder had an indescribable
interest in the minds of the populace of ----dorf and its surrounding
villages. No wonder the adjacent townships vomited forth their scum of
the curious, idle, and depraved! This was a sight not to be missed on
any account, and would furnish them with gossip for the next six months
at least. At length, when the long streaky rose-tipped clouds announced
the approach of the fatal hour, the crowd burst out simultaneously into
a cry of "He comes! he comes! the Henker comes!"

The crowd made room for a young man in a cart, who, having thrown the
reins on the horse's neck, passed through the file of soldiers and
mounted the hillock of earth, armed with the two-handed weapon that he
was about to use for the first time in his life.

"Look!" said one of the crowd; "it _is_ young Leo, after all. I thought
they had found a substitute."

"What a hard-hearted young ruffian to consent to take the life of his
father with his own hands!" said another.

"And he doesn't seem to feel it a bit," said a third; "why, he is
actually smiling."

"Some folks say that he does not know who it is that he is going to
behead," said a fourth.

"Not know that the criminal is his father?" exclaimed the former
speaker. "Nonsense, I don't believe it."

The young headsman was attired in a buff leather jerkin slashed with red
and hose of a dark green. He appeared about two-and-twenty, and was as
yet beardless. He was considerably taller than his father, but his
frame, though powerfully built, was devoid of that excessive and almost
preternatural muscular development that characterised that of the old
executioner. His hair was of a reddish brown, his complexion florid, his
eyes light blue, and his features, though somewhat coarse, had something
in them not altogether disagreeable. He leaned firmly on his sword and
gazed around calmly on the crowd, when suddenly the human sea became
violently agitated and began to groan and hiss in its fury.

The cause of this tumult became speedily known. It was the arrival of
the "poor sinner," who was drawn in a cart between two priests and
habited according to the custom of the condemned on such occasions. Loud
hooting and execrations burst forth on all sides from the crowd as it
made way for the condemned cart.

"But that is not Franz Wenzel," said one to his neighbour. "The old
Henker had red hair; this man's hair is black."

"Fool, don't you know how that is?" said his neighbour. "Haven't you
heard yet how he dyed his hair black in order not to be recognised?"

"No, did he though?" said the former. "But look! why is his head tied up
so with two handkerchiefs? I can't see anything of his face."

"H'm, I don't know; some innovation I suppose. The handkerchief always
used to be tied on when on the scaffold in my time," answered his
friend. The criminal had now alighted from the cart, and, followed by
the two priests, ascended the place of execution, where he took his seat
on the chair placed for him. The assistant executioner, whose face was
most successfully disguised with a black mask, pushed his way through
the crowd and mounted the platform.

"Who is _he_?" was a question asked by everyone of everybody; "and why
is he masked while Leo, who bears the sword, is unmasked?"

"Who knows? Perhaps he is the new headsman that they all talked about,
and young Leo will not really behead his own father; but we shall see."

The crowd had grown more curious than ever. Every one stood on the
tip-toe of expectation with his eyes and mouth wide open. An intense
silence reigned around, during which the man in the mask bound the
criminal firmly to his seat with a strong cord, then seizing the
handkerchief that was tied round the head of the condemned, he gave the
signal for the blow. The two priests who had hitherto been whispering
consolation in the ear of the criminal now retreated a few paces to the
rear, while young Leo advanced, flushed and triumphant, his whole
countenance distorted with an expression of malice and revenge. Before
brandishing his sword to give the final blow he lowered his head close
to the ear of the victim and hissed out in accents sufficiently audible
to be overheard by that part of the crowd that had assembled nearest to
the scaffold: "Wretch! thine hour has come at last. Learn now the
vengeance of a wronged son. Thou shalt see if I am the son of my father
or no, and whether it is for nothing that I have been bred a
Scharfrichter. Prepare now, for thou art soon to learn how I have
profited by my lessons--whether I am an apt pupil. My sword is sharpened
well on purpose for thee, and when thou feelest the cold steel close to
thy neck, then, then, to h----l with thee, and bear throughout eternity
the curses of a ruined son!"

During this speech of the young headsman the criminal was observed to
tremble convulsively, as if struggling to speak, but the assistant
executioner grasped the handkerchief still tighter round his head and
repeated the signals impatiently.

"Did you hear?" said one of the foremost in the crowd. "Did you hear how
he cursed his father? He actually reproached him in his last moments for
having brought him up a Scharfrichter! Oh! the unfeeling young villain!
What a heart he must have."

"Ah! neighbour," answered another, "these executioners are not like
other mortals; they do not know what it is to feel. They are brought up
to kill their fellow creatures as butchers are to kill cattle, and they
think nothing of it. Bless you, there is nothing these men would not do
for money."

"'Tis strange, too," said another close by. "I always thought young Leo
loved his father. I never thought so bad of him as to think that he
would curse him in his dying moments, wretch though he may have been."

"Take my word for it, neighbour," said a sturdy inhabitant of ----dorf,
"that young Leo does not know yet that it is his father."

At this moment everyone suddenly broke short his discourse, and the
crowd again was silent for a moment. The two-handed weapon was raised
high in the air, glittered for a moment in the rays of the rising sun,
then descended with the rapidity of lightning, while the head of the
murderer having slipped out of the handkerchief with the force of the
blow, fell with a crash on the platform.

A loud cheer is raised by the crowd, and young Leo having thrown away
his sword and pushed aside the assistant executioner, has seized the
head of the criminal and torn off the bandage from his eyes. He holds it
high in the air by its purple locks and gloats with fiendish
satisfaction on its writhing features. The muscles of the face are
fearfully convulsed, as if the spirit had not as yet quite departed, but
still lingered about the corpse, being loth to leave its tenement. The
eyes roll hideously and appear to gaze reproachfully upon the face of
the young executioner. Suddenly a change comes over the features of the
young man. His countenance, the moment before so flushed with triumph
and revenge, now assumes a ghastly pallor; a cold sweat breaks out on
his forehead, his matted locks stand on end. His eyes start from his
head, his jaw drops low. Then, with a preternatural shriek, he drops the
head, which rolls down the hillock of earth among the crowd, staggers
and falls heavily upon the platform, gasping out "_Oh, Gott! mein
Vater!_"

No words can describe the sensation created among the crowd at this
horrible scene. Questions and explanations ensued, and a rush was made
towards the scaffold. Assistance was at length procured, and the son of
the late executioner was lifted from the ground and driven toward his
own house in the cart that he had set out in that morning to execute his
fearful mission. A doctor was sent for, who declared that he was in an
apoplectic fit. In time, however, he recovered, and the doctor left
someone with him to attend to him and keep him quiet. Nevertheless, when
he came to reflect upon what had happened that morning, in spite of all
restraint, he rushed wildly into the chamber where his poor paralytic
mother lay on her death-bed, and losing all caution and reflection in
his emotion, he related in a wild and excited manner the dreadful events
of the day. The result may be anticipated. The poor woman, long given up
by the doctors, sank under the startling news, and expired almost
instantaneously.

Young Leo, who, with the exception of his drunkenness had really nothing
very bad in him, now gave way to the most excessive grief, for he loved
his mother tenderly. He felt himself now guilty of the murder of both
his parents, and refused all consolation. What had he now to live for,
thought he. His father he had murdered with his own hands and sent with
curses to the tomb; his mother, so dear to him he had hurried to the
grave through his insane want of self-restraint. His lady-love, false
(as he thought), for secretly they had plighted their troth together.
What was life to him now but a burden? He loathed it. These gloomy
thoughts clouded his mind with a profound melancholy, a deep incurable
despair. On the following morning Leo Wenzel, the young executioner,
fell upon his own sword, yet moist with the blood of his father, by him
so unconsciously shed on the day before.

With the death of Leo Wenzel the family became extinct, and the
profession of the Scharfrichter went begging. But who was the assistant
executioner? Nobody could find out. He had disappeared as mysteriously
as he had made his appearance. Some said it was one, and some another,
while the most settled belief was that it could be none other than the
arch-fiend himself who had come to carry off the Henker's soul. In the
confusion that followed the swoon of young Leo he had vanished, and no
one had seen whither. No human being could have passed through a crowd
without being seen by someone, therefore it must have been the
arch-enemy of mankind. Thus reasoned the people of ----dorf.

And Lieschen, what became of her? Poor girl! the news of her lover's
suicide, for she had truly loved the youthful headsman, had completely
overwhelmed her. She fell into a decline and outlived her lover but one
year.

The servant of the burgomaster was mistaken in believing that after
Leo's death the course would be now clear for him. His heartless scheme
had come to light (for it was difficult to keep anything long a secret
in ----dorf), and he found the door of Lieschen's house closed upon him
for ever.

He soon knew himself hated by all the town, and tradition goes on to
relate that some years afterwards, when he was in the service of another
master, his employer having missed certain articles of plate and called
in the police to search his coffers, they found not only the missing
articles, but also a black mask and a suit of sad coloured clothes,
recognised as having been worn by the assistant on the day of Wenzel's
execution.

Finding his reputation lost in ----dorf, he deemed it advisable to
retire to another village, where he afterwards married. The last we hear
of him is that he ultimately accepted the office of Scharfrichter, and
took up his abode in the house of Franz Wenzel, where he reared up a
long line of executioners, which was only broken many years later by the
profession of the Henker ceasing to be obligatory.

But what of our two friends Fritz and Ludwig? We had nigh forgotten
them. That they were both of them present at the execution is undoubted
from certain passages in their correspondence after my ancestor had left
Germany for ever. The day after Wenzel's execution was the last time
they met on earth. They each of them passed the remainder of their days
in their own respective countries though they corresponded frequently.
The most recently dated letter from Ludwig Engstein bears with it the
news of his marriage, and in a postscript he mentions having been just
informed that since the execution of Franz Wenzel the tricks of the
Poltergeist had ceased for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Murmurs of applause were upon every lip as our artist finished his
narrative, when Mr. Oldstone, rising, thus addressed the club.
"Gentlemen; I think you will all agree with me that my friend Mr.
McGuilp has fully earned his sitting from the fair Helen?"

"Yes, yes," cried several voices; "he has paid us beforehand. Let him
have his rights."

At this moment the door opened ajar and the head of Dame Hearty appeared
at the aperture to inform the club that her daughter was now at their
disposal.

"Let her be brought in!" shouted a chorus of voices. "It is but fair
that we should have one more look at Helen before Mr. McGuilp walks off
with her."

Helen then appeared in the doorway and was greeted enthusiastically by
the whole club, in the midst of which the painter, after looking at his
watch and ascertaining that it was yet early enough for a good sitting,
left the room and made for his studio, where, having set his palette, he
was joined shortly afterwards by his fair model. Having arranged his
colours and placed his canvas on the easel, he sat contemplating the
portrait he had commenced so recently. Alas! how flat and insipid his
poor work looked after having gazed on the bright original! It was but
the first painting, it is true, and we know that nothing really good can
be done at once; but, then, what drawing he found to correct now that he
looked at his work with a fresh eye! The awfulness of the difficulties
in art now rose up in his mind to appal him, and he uttered a sigh.

"Can all the glazing and scumbling in the world," muttered he to
himself, "ever advance this portrait one step towards the divine
original?"

Thus musing, the painter seized the canvas in both hands and breathed
over its surface. Immediately afterwards, mixing up some colour
sparingly, he scumbled over the entire surface of the portrait. Helen,
whose eye dwelt upon the artist's every movement, whether from
curiosity, or from some mysterious sympathy she felt for the young
painter, demanded of him why he breathed on the face of her picture.

"To breathe into it the breath of life, Helen," replied McGuilp,
smilingly.

Helen opened her large blue eyes with an expression of half wonderment,
half doubt, not knowing whether the painter spoke in jest, or whether an
artist really had some occult power in his very breath that could vivify
the canvas. How was she to know, poor innocent child! Village bred and
born in an age, as our readers will recollect, before photography had
rendered too familiar the representation of the human face even for the
veriest peasant any longer to wonder at the art by which it is produced?

In the days we speak of the painter's art was the only mode of
transfixing the lineaments of a dear friend or parent and rendering them
immortal. Painters, too, were much less common then than now-a-days, for
art was still in its infancy in plain matter-of-fact old England. The
painter, or limner as he was then called, was a being of far greater
interest than at the present day. He was patronised by royalty and
nobility, and though the prices that he received for his works were
considerably less than in our times, and he was nearly always a poor and
needy individual, yet he met with a certain amount of respect from his
patrons, as they knew that by his hand alone could they hope to become
immortal. Everyone liked to see his own features represented upon
canvas, or those of his wife and family. Oft times his favourite horse
or dog. In order to secure the services of the limner therefore, it was
necessary to court him, nor was this respect or appearance of such ever
denied him, save perhaps by the pampered menial of some nobleman or
wealthy squire, who looked superciliously down upon the itinerant
painter as a being far inferior to himself. We will hope, however, for
the honour of humanity that the number was comparatively small that
measured the painter's respectability by the length of his purse.

Indeed, the titled and the wealthy seem to have prided themselves in
doing everything in their power to set the example of respect towards a
disciple of the fine arts. Among this class the painter had seldom
anything to complain of; in fact, provided he were affable in manner,
decent in appearance, could paint the ladies' hands and ears small
enough to please them, their eyes sufficiently large and languishing,
and, lastly--but which was of no small importance--could represent
faithfully the texture of their silks and satins, their lace, velvet,
fur, or swansdown, oh, then he was caressed, petted, and acknowledged by
all as a most agreeable member of society and sure of making his
fortune. But woe to him if he were above his business and attempted high
art--we mean subject pictures that were not portraits. However much he
might be gifted in that line, his friends would instantly desert him,
and he might starve in a garret. His patrons knew nothing of high art
and cared as little. All they wanted was to see their own effigies
adorning the walls of their mansions, and as long as the limner was
content to be of service to them they were willing to support him, but
no longer. It was set down as an axiom that the human _face_ divine--by
which they meant their own faces--was the highest aim that a painter
could aspire to. This was the sort of high art they wanted, and no
other.

A painter must be content with the work his patrons set him to do and
not indulge his own caprices. Well, well, admitting the range of the
painter's art to have been cramped and limited, has any age or country
the power to cramp the 

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