already pointed out, the spirit, the marauder, the individual who chanced to be actually in the cistern, had heard everything. The idea of stopping a gunshot did not strike him as amusing, for in a shrill, piercing voice he cried:
“Stop! Don’t fire—I’m coming.”
Then the three functionaries looked at each other and laughed softly, and the burgomaster, leaning over the opening again, cried rudely:
“Be quick about it, you varlet, or I’ll shoot! Be quick about it!”
He cocked his gun, and the click seemed to hasten the ascent of the mysterious person; they heard him rolling down some stones. Nevertheless it still took him another minute before he appeared, the cistern being at a depth of sixty feet.
What was this man doing in such deep darkness? He must be some great criminal! So at least thought Petrus Mauerer and his acolytes.
At last a vague form could be discerned in the dark, then slowly, by degrees, a little man, four and a half feet high at the most, frail, ragged, his face withered and yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpie’s, and his hair tangled, came out shouting:
“By what right do you come to disturb my studies, wretched creatures?”
This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in accord with his costume and physiognomy. Accordingly the burgomaster indignantly replied:
“Try to show that you’re honest, you knave, or I’ll begin by administering a correction.”
“A correction!” said the little man, leaping with anger, and drawing himself up under the nose of the burgomaster.
“Yes,” replied the other, who, nevertheless, did not fail to admire the pygmy’s courage; “if you do not answer the questions satisfactorily I am going to put to you. I am the burgomaster of Hirschwiller; here are the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We are stronger than you—be wise and tell me peaceably who you are, what you are doing here, and why you do not dare to appear in broad daylight. Then we shall see what’s to be done with you.”
“All that’s none of your business,” replied the little man in his cracked voice. “I shall not answer.”
“In that case, forward, march,” ordered the burgomaster, who grasped him firmly by the nape of the neck; “you are going to sleep in prison.”
The little man writhed like a weasel; he even tried to bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs, when, quite exhausted, he said, not without a certain dignity:
“Let go, sir, I surrender to superior force—I’m yours!”
The burgomaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer.
“Do you promise?” said he.
“I promise!”
“Very well—walk in front.”
And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July, 1835, the burgomaster took captive a little red-haired man, issuing from the cavern of Geierstein.
Upon arriving at Hirschwiller the rural guard ran to find the key of the prison and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to forget the outside bolt and padlock.
Everyone then could repose after his fatigues, and Petrus Mauerer went to bed and dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure.
On the morrow, toward nine o’clock, Hans Goerner, the rural guard, having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for another examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils. They opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the Will-o’-the-wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his necktie! Some said that he was still writhing; others that he was already stiff. However that may be, they ran to Petrus Mauerer’s house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that upon the latter’s arrival the little man had breathed his last.
The justice of the peace and the doctor of Hirschwiller drew up a formal statement of the catastrophe; then they buried the unknown in a field of meadow grass and it was all over!
Now about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin, Petrus Mauerer, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his heir. This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us. We were at dinner, talking on indifferent matters, when the burgomaster recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it.
“’Tis strange, cousin,” said I, “truly strange. And you have no other information concerning the unknown?”
“None.”
“And you have found nothing which could give you a clew as to his purpose?”
“Absolutely nothing, Christian.”
“But, as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the cistern? On what did he live?”
The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and replied with:
“To your health, cousin.”
“To yours.”
We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I mused with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this world like the grass of the field, without leaving the least memory or the least regret.
“Cousin,” I resumed, “how far may it be from here to the ruins of Geierstein?”
“Twenty minutes’ walk at the most. Why?”
“Because I should like to see them.”
“You know that we have a meeting of the municipal council, and that I can’t accompany you.”
“Oh! I can find them by myself.”
“No, the rural guard will show you the way; he has nothing better to do.”
And my worthy cousin, having rapped on his glass, called his servant:
“Katel, go and find Hans Goerner—let him hurry, and get here by two o’clock. I must be going.”
The servant went out and the rural guard was not tardy in coming.
He was directed to take me to the ruins.
While the burgomaster proceeded gravely toward the hall of the municipal council, we were already climbing the hill. Hans Goerner, with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct. At the same moment the rocky ribs of the plateau, the blue distances of Hundsrück, the sad crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling of the Hirschwiller bell summoning the notables to the council, the rural guardsman panting and catching at the brambles—assumed in my eyes a sad and severe tinge, for which I could not account: it was the story of the hanged man which took the color out of the prospect.
The cistern staircase struck me as being exceedingly curious, with its elegant spiral. The bushes bristling in the fissures at every step, the deserted aspect of its surroundings, all harmonized with my sadness. We
