The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

in the armies of the Archduke Charles. He had a jovial disposition, and ruled the village, it is said, with his finger and with the rod.

      “Mr. Burgomaster,” cried the shepherd in evident excitement.

      But Petrus Mauerer, without awaiting the end of his speech, frowned and said:

      “Kasper Boeck, begin by taking off your hat, put your dog out of the room, and then speak distinctly, intelligibly, without stammering, so that I may understand you.”

      Hereupon the burgomaster, standing near the table, tranquilly emptied his little glass and wiped his great gray mustachios indifferently.

      Kasper put his dog out, and came back with his hat off.

      “Well!” said Petrus, seeing that he was silent, “what has happened?”

      “It happens that the spirit has appeared again in the ruins of Geierstein!”

      “Ha! I doubt it. You’ve seen it yourself?”

      “Very clearly, Mr. Burgomaster.”

      “Without closing your eyes?”

      “Yes, Mr. Burgomaster—my eyes were wide open. There was plenty of moonlight.”

      “What form did it have?”

      “The form of a small man.”

      “Good!”

      And turning toward a glass door at the left:

      “Katel!” cried the burgomaster.

      An old serving woman opened the door.

      “Sir?”

      “I am going out for a walk—on the hillside—sit up for me until ten o’clock. Here’s the key.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Then the old soldier took down his gun from the hook over the door, examined the priming, and slung it over his shoulder; then he addressed Kasper Boeck:

      “Go and tell the rural guard to meet me in the holly path, and tell him behind the mill. Your spirit must be some marauder. But if it’s a fox, I’ll make a fine hood of it, with long earlaps.”

      Master Petrus Mauerer and humble Kasper then went out. The weather was superb, the stars innumerable. While the shepherd went to knock at the rural guard’s door, the burgomaster plunged among the elder bushes, in a little lane that wound around behind the old church.

      Two minutes later Kasper and Hans Goerner, whinger at his side, by running overtook Master Petrus in the holly path.

      All three made their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein.

      These ruins, which are twenty minutes’ walk from the village, seem to be insignificant enough; they consist of the ridges of a few decrepit walls, from four to six feet high, which extend among the brier bushes. Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus, the Roman camp of Holderlock, or vestiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy. The only thing about these ruins which could be considered remarkable is a stairway to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase, instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening. Is it an architectural freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd construction? It matters little to us. The result was to cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path, murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words spoken by people passing the foot of the hill.

      Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens of Hirschwiller.

      “I see nothing,” the burgomaster would say, turning up his nose derisively.

      “Nor I either,” the rural guard would repeat, imitating the other’s tone.

      “It’s down in the hole,” muttered the shepherd.

      “We shall see, we shall see,” returned the burgomaster.

      It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon the opening of the cistern. As I have said, the night was clear, limpid, and perfectly still.

      The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The blooming brier and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odor, and the frogs of a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed with silences. But all these details escaped the notice of our good rustics; they thought of nothing but laying hands on the spirit.

      When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened, then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared—nothing stirred.

      “The devil!” said the burgomaster, “we forgot to bring a bit of candle. Descend, Kasper, you know the way better than I—I’ll follow you.”

      At this proposition the shepherd recoiled promptly. If he had consulted his inclinations the poor man would have taken to flight; his pitiful expression made the burgomaster burst out laughing.

      “Well, Hans, since he doesn’t want to go down, show me the way,” he said to the game warden.

      “But, Mr. Burgomaster,” said the latter, “you know very well that steps are missing; we should risk breaking our necks.”

      “Then what’s to be done?”

      “Yes, what’s to be done?”

      “Send your dog,” replied Petrus.

      The shepherd whistled to his dog, showed him the stairway, urged him—but he did not wish to take the chances any more than the others.

      At this moment, a bright idea struck the rural guardsman.

      “Ha! Mr. Burgomaster,” said he, “if you should fire your gun inside.”

      “Faith,” cried the other, “you’re right, we shall catch a glimpse at least.”

      And without hesitating the worthy man approached the stairway and leveled his gun.

      But, by the acoustic effect which I have 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,”