Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales/Legends of Rubezahl/The Second Legend
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Legend the Second.
Before he had done speaking human voices reached him from a distance. Three young men were passing below, the boldest of whom was bawling incessantly:—“Come down, Rubezahl! come down, thou girl-stealer!”
During all these centuries, the scandalous chronicle of the district had preserved the history of Rubezahl’s amour, and as a matter of course, from mouth to mouth through so many generations, had not failed to receive infinite embellishments. All the travellers who passed over the Riesengeberg narrated the adventure to each other, and each added something to the tale he himself had heard. Many an awful story was current, altogether unfounded in fact, but the recital of which failed not to cause the very flesh to creep on the bones of timorous travellers; while, on the other hand, the strong-minded folks, the wits and philosophers, who in broad day-light, and with plenty of friends about them, had no belief in ghosts, and made themselves exceedingly merry at all such ridiculous notions, were in the habit, whenever a party of them passed the mountain in the day-time, of shouting out very valorously and scornfully the Mountain Spirit’s nickname, and calling upon him to appear; and when he did not appear, they got braver and braver, and would downright abuse and vilify him. They little thought that the reason why the apparently peaceful Spirit took no notice of their impertinences was simply that in the depths where he had retreated their insolent bravadoes never reached his ear. What was Rubezahl’s amazement, what his indignation, when he now found that his unhappy amour was an ordinary subject of jest and mockery in the mouths of the contemptible creatures who had made good their intrusion on his domains. Like a whirlwind, and as invisible, he rushed through the thick forest of firs, and was just about to strangle the fellow who had, however unconsciously, insulted him, when, on the instant, he reflected that so terrible a vengeance, necessarily exciting general alarm throughout the country, would drive away all travellers from his mountains, and thus deprive him of the pleasure he promised himself, of playing a thousand pranks upon the children of Adam; he therefore permitted the delinquent and his companions to pass on undisturbed for the present, with the clear intention, however, of punishing him most severely for his offence on a very early occasion.
At the next cross-roads, the Spirit-mocker parted from his two companions, and reached his native town, Hirschberg, safe and sound, and without the slightest notion of the scrape he had got into. Rubezahl having followed him to the inn where he put up, and thus ascertained where to find him again when requisite, retraced his steps to the mountain, meditating divers plans of vengeance. On his way, he met a rich Jew proceeding to Hirschberg, and it instantly occurred to him that he might make this man an instrument of his revenge. He forthwith assumed the precise form and features, and dress of the traveller who had insulted him, and joining the Israelite, entered into friendly converse with him, and under pretence of a short cut, led him out of the road into a thicket, where, suddenly seizing him in the most ferocious manner by the beard, he shook him soundly, and then throwing him roughly on the ground, tied him neck and heels, and took from him his purse, which contained a large amount in gold and jewels. He then, by way of adieu, kicked and cuffed the unhappy Jew, until he well nigh became a jelly, after which satisfactory exercise the Gnome left his victim half dead among the bushes, and went his way.
As soon as the sufferer had recovered from his awful panic, and satisfied himself by pinching his poor bruised arms and legs that he was not dead, he set up a doleful howling, and bawled piteously for help, and well he might, for left there, in the depth of the forest, and unable to rise, what was to save him from dying of hunger where he lay? His cries brought to his assistance a grave, respectable-looking person, apparently a burgess of some neighbouring town, who, while earnestly inquiring the cause of those agonized cries, those cruel bonds, undid with all benevolent haste the rope that kept the poor fellow’s body rolled up almost in the form of a ball; next, he refreshed the Israelite’s inward man with a draught of right royal cordial from a gourd he bore at his girdle, then carried him into the high road, and, as soon as the patient had recovered the use of his limbs, supported him the remaining distance to Hirschberg, to the very door of the tavern where he intended to pass the night, and there only bade him adieu, after having slipped into his hand a small sum of money. What was the astonishment of the Jew, on entering the house, to see the vagabond who had plundered him sitting at a table in the common room, as calm and unembarrassed as though he were the most innocent creature in the world. Before him stood a great pitcher of wine; around him were other lusty lads, with whom he was laughing and joking in the most hardened manner; beside him lay his wallet, in which Master Rubezahl, having, after taking leave of the Jew at the door as the honest burgess, entered the room, invisible to all eyes, had placed the purse which, as a robber, he had forced from poor Moses. The latter, hardly knowing how to believe his eyes, slunk into a corner, to consider of the best and readiest means of recovering his property. After having minutely examined his man, he was convinced there could be no mistake in the case; and accordingly, slipping unperceived out of the house, he hastened to the magistrates and laid his plaint. Justice, in the good town of Hirschberg, had, at that period, the repute of great vigilance and activity in all cases where the expenses were sure to be paid; though ’twas said her progress was little better than snail-paced in mere profitless ex officio proceedings. The same thing, for that matter, has been insinuated of other times and places. Our Israelite, who knew the way of Hirschberg, when he found the judge hesitate to receive his deposition, pointed out to him that the wallet of the accused contained a corpus delicti far more than sufficient to pay handsomely all fees, expenses, and perquisites whatever. These golden spectacles at once cleared the magistrate’s vision, and he forthwith issued his warrant, armed with which, and with rusty pikes and halberts, a body of catchpoles surrounded the inn pointed out by the Jew; the more daring of them then rushed, with firm determination, into the common room, furiously seized the unconscious offender, and dragged him to the hall of justice.
“Who art thou?” demanded the judge, with a stern voice, “and whence comest thou?”—“I am an honest tailor by business,” replied the young man, in a firm, fearless tone, “my name is Benedict; I come from Liebenau; I work in my master’s house.”—“Hast thou not attacked this Jew in the forest, beaten him unmercifully, tied him neck and heels, and robbed him of his purse?”—“I never saw this Jew before; I have neither beaten him, nor bound him, nor robbed him. I am an honest freeman of my company, and no highway robber.”—“How canst thou prove all this?”—“By my certificates.”—“Let us see them.”
Benedict opened his wallet with the utmost confidence, for he felt quite certain that it contained nothing that was not his own property. What was his alarm, on throwing out the first handful of things, to hear the clink of gold as it fell upon the floor among them. The officers instantly ran up, and turning over Benedict’s shirts and stockings, found a heavy purse, which the Jew eagerly claimed as his property, and took possession of, deductis deducendis, all fees and expenses being first handed over to justice. The poor tailor was thunder-struck, ready to sink into the earth; he turned ghastly pale; his lips convulsively quivered; his knees shook; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; he became quite speechless. The brow of the judge clouded over, and his threatening countenance foretold a severe sentence. “Wretch!” thundered he, “wilt thou now dare to deny thy guilt?”—“Mercy! mercy! my lord!” whimpered the poor fellow, throwing himself on his knees, and raising his clasped hands in supplication; “I call all the saints in Paradise to witness, I am innocent of this robbery. How the Jew’s purse got into my wallet I have not the least idea, I swear it!”
“Pshaw, fellow!” cried the judge; “thou standest convicted beyond a doubt. The purse clearly manifests thy guilt. Pay, then, to God and to justice the late respect of a free confession, and compel not the executioner to extort the truth by torture.”
The miserable Benedict only answered by renewed protestations of his innocence; but he addressed deaf ears. Everybody present regarded him as a hardened rogue, well deserving of the gallows.
Master Torturer, that formidable father confessor, was now called in, to see if, by his impressive eloquence, he could not induce the prisoner to acknowledge himself guilty, whether or no; and his presence produced the usual effect; the mere anticipation of the pain that threatened him deprived Benedict of all the support which his good conscience had hitherto afforded. When the thumb-screws were about to be applied, the unfortunate tailor, reflecting that this operation must for ever disable him from using his needle at all decently, and deeming it better to die by hanging than by hunger, consented to father a crime he had not committed. The court forthwith unanimously sentenced him to be hanged, and he was ordered for execution next morning at sunrise, for the purpose of at once promptly satisfying justice and of saving the town the expense of providing the ragamuffin’s breakfast.
The spectators, who had watched the proceedings with the greatest interest, pronounced the decision of the sapient magistrates of Hirschberg to be in the highest degree right and reasonable; and of the whole audience, no one was louder in his applause than the good Samaritan who helped the Jew home, and who, having made his way into the thick of the crowd, had manifested huge delight at the way in which matters went from first to last against the poor fellow at the bar, though no one knew better than he the entire innocence of the accused,—seeing that it was he himself, the malicious Rubezahl, who, as we have before intimated, had, unseen of all, put the Jew’s purse that he had taken into the unfortunate tailor’s wallet. With the earliest dawn the Gnome, under the form of a raven, was perched upon the gallows, awaiting with eagerness the fatal procession that was to gratify his revenge so far, and moreover, with a raven’s appetite, well disposed to pick out the eyes of the sufferer for breakfast. But once again he reckoned without his host.
A pious monk, one of those who, out of pure desire to save men’s souls, attend criminals under sentence of death, had found Benedict so deplorably ignorant of all religious matters, that it was impossible to prepare him for death in the short time allowed, and he had therefore obtained for his penitent a respite for three days, though not without a great deal of trouble, and absolutely menacing all the judges with excommunication, if they continued to refuse his demand. As soon as Rubezahl heard of this he flew off in a terrible pet to his mountains, to await the day of execution.
During the interval he made excursions through the mountains and valleys. In one of his rambles, he came upon a young girl who was reclined beneath a tree; her head, resting upon a hand whiter than alas baster, sank mournfully upon her bosom. Her dres- was plain, but clean and neat. From time to time she wiped away a burning tear from her pale cheek, while deep sighs agitated her bosom. Ten centuries before, the Gnome had felt the powerful influence of woman’s tears; and he was now so strongly affected by the distress of the girl before him, that he resolved she should be an exception to the vow he had made to torment and injure all such children of Adam as came in his way in the mountains: and not only this, he determined to assist her in her grief. For this purpose, having assumed the form of a respectable burgher, he approached the mourner, and addressed her in friendly tones: “My child, why weepest thou here alone in this solitude? Tell me all thy sorrows, that I may see whether I can remove them.”
The poor girl, who had been so absorbed in her grief as not to have perceived the speaker’s approach, looked up, seized with alarm, when she heard herself thus accosted. And what a pair of soft blue eyes were there! They would have melted a heart of stone! A pearly tear trembled under each lid; the double expression of grief and of timidity now impressed upon her ingenuous countenance, added new charms to her beauty. When she saw that the person who addressed her was a man who seemed worthy of respect and confidence, she opened her coral lips and replied: “Worthy sir, heed not my sufferings, since ’tis not in your power to assist me. I am a wretch—a monster; I have murdered the man I love, and naught remains for me but to expiate my crime by tears and lamentations, until death shall end my misery.”
The benevolent traveller stood amazed. “Thou a murderess!” cried he; “can those angelic features be the mask of wickedness? Impossible! ’Tis true, mankind is a collection of knaves and villains, as I know to my cost; but that thou should’st not be an exception to the rule, is to me inconceivable; ’tis a perfect riddle.”
“I will explain it,” said the unhappy girl. “I had, as my beloved companion from childhood, the son of a worthy widow, our neighbour. When we grew up he called me, and I was happy in the title, his sweetheart, his betrothed; he was so good, so kind, so honest and true; he loved me so dearly, that I could not but love him truly in return. And now what have I done? I have poisoned the mind of that dear young man—have made him forget the excellent lessons of his virtuous mother, and perverted him to the perpetration of a crime for which he has forfeited his life.”
“Thou!” exclaimed the Gnome, with emphatic earnestness.
“Yes, sir, I am his murderess, his corrupter; for I am the cause of his having committed a highway robbery—of his having plundered a rogue of a Jew. He has fallen into the hands of the magistracy of Hirschberg, has been condemned, and, O heart’s misery! to-morrow he dies!”
“And this was thy fault?” inquired the amazed Rubezahl.
“Yes, sir, his young blood lies at my door.”
“How can that be?”
“When he set out on his journeymen’s travels, as, bidding me farewell he held me to his heart, he said: ‘Dear love, be true to me. When the apple tree shall bloom for the third time, and the swallow for the third time build her nest, I shall have returned from my wanderings; and then I swear by all I hold sacred thou shalt be my wife.’ The apple tree bloomed for the third time, the swallow for the third time had built her nest, Benedict came back, reminded me of my promise, and asked me to marry. But I flouted and mocked him, as girls often do their lovers, and said: ‘How can I be thy wife, thou hast no home to take me to. Go and get some good hard money, and then we’ll consider of the matter.’ This language went to the heart of the poor fellow. ‘Ah, Clara!’ sighed he, with tears in his eyes, ‘if thy mind be set upon goods and gold, thou art no longer the honest girl thou once wast. Didst thou not give me thy hand to my hand that thou would’st be true? And what had I then more than this hand wherewith to maintain thee? Why now thus proud, thus cold? Ah, Clara! I need not ask; some rich lover has robbed me of thy heart. Is this my reward, faithless one? Three long years have I spent, counting the months and days and hours that separated me from thee. As I crossed the mountains on my return, my before wearied feet became light and free, my strength and speed were renewed by the glowing hope of the welcome which I expected at thy hands, and now thou receivest me with contempt.’ He wept and sobbed, but I did not give way. ‘Benedict,’ I said coldly, ‘my heart despises thee not; my hand rejects thee not; all I require is this—depart once more, get money, and then come home, and I will be thine.’—‘Well,’ he replied moodily, ‘so be it, since thou wilt have it so. I will depart once more, and work, beg, borrow, or steal; nor shalt thou see me again until, by some means or other, good or bad, I have acquired the vile dross by which alone I can purchase thy hand.’—‘Good-bye,’ I said lightly.’ ‘Farewell,’ he mournfully replied, and left me. ’Twas thus I plunged him into guilt. When he departed from me, bitterness entered his soul; his guardian angel abandoned him, and he did that which the laws and his own heart alike condemn.”
The worthy burgess shook his head on hearing this recital, and exclaimed, after a pause: “This is indeed very extraordinary! but,” he continued, “why stayest thou here, filling this solitary wild with lamentations, which can be of no use either to thy lover or to thyself.”
“Kind sir,” she replied, “I was on my way to Hirschberg, when the violence of my grief so oppressed me, that I sunk, half dead, beneath this tree.”
“And what dost thou purpose to do at Hirschberg?”
“I will throw myself at the feet of the judges; I will rouse the town with my cries, and the maidens of Hirschberg, mingling their tears and entreaties with mine, will induce the Tribunal to take compassion on us, and to spare my lover’s life. At all events, if I cannot save his life, I will die with him.”
The Gnome was so moved by the poor girl’s distress, that he from that moment utterly abandoned all idea of further vengeance against the unlucky Benedict, whom he resolved without delay to restore to her arms. “Dry thy tears,” said he in sympathizing tones, “and let thy sorrow cease; before sunset thy lover shall be free. To-morrow morning, at the first crowing of the cock, be on the watch; when thou shalt hear a finger tap at thy window, open the door without fear; it will be thy lover who calls thee. And take heed, girl, not again to madden him by thy insolent cruelty. For thy comfort know, that he did not commit the robbery with which he is charged, so that thou hast no such guilt wherewith to burden thy conscience, though there is no saying to what extremities his love and thy caprice might have driven him.”
The girl greatly marvelled at all this, but on looking fixedly at the speaker, and detecting in his face no indication that he was otherwise than in serious earnest, she began to place faith in his words, and therewith her brow cleared up somewhat, and she said to him, with a joyful yet timid earnestness:
“Dear sir, if you mock me not, if all be as you say, surely you must be Benedict’s good angel, to know and do all this.”
“His good angel!” exclaimed Rubezahl, not a little disconcerted, “no, on my soul! but I may, as thou shalt find, become so. I am a burgher of Hirschberg, and was one of the judges who, as it then seemed justly, condemned the accused, but his innocence is now brought to light; have no fears, therefore, for his life. I am now on my way to the town, where I have considerable influence; and trust me he shall be forthwith liberated. Be of good cheer, and go home full of confident hope for the event of to-morrow’s early morning.”
The girl obeyed, and departed on her return home, hope and fear alternating in her agitated bosom.
During the three days of respite, Father Graurock had laboured hard to get Benedict into a fit state for his approaching end; but his penitent was an ignorant layman, who knew far better how to handle the needle and shears than the rosary. He was for ever mixing up the Ave Maria and the Paternoster in inexplicable confusion; and as for the Credo, he did not know one syllable of it. The zealous monk had all the difficulty in the world in driving the latter into his head, nor did he succeed in this until full two days out of the three had expired. For unhappily worldly feelings, and the image of Clara, would ever and anon interrupt the progress of his spiritual lessons; but at last the patient monk succeeded in setting before his appalled contemplation a picture of the infernal regions so dreadful, that it drove from the mind of the poor fellow all thought of his mistress, and he paid assiduous attention to the exhortations of his ghostly attendant.
“Great indeed is thy crime, my son,” said the monk, as he took leave of him on the evening of the third day, “but despair not. The fire of purgatory will suffice to cleanse thee. Well is it for thee that it was no true believer, but only a miscreant Jew, whom thou didst despoil. As it is, a hundred years of purgatorial penance will suffice to whiten thy soul as new silver; had it been otherwise, hadst thou assailed a Christian, not a thousand years would have purged thee. Farewell!”
The monk had just quitted his penitent, who, unable to appreciate the advantage of having only one hundred years of purgatory, was perfectly terror-struck and inconsolable, when, at the entrance to the prison, he passed Rubezahl, who, however, was invisible, not having yet made up his mind in what form he should proceed to fulfil his purpose of setting the poor tailor at liberty, in such a manner as not to spoil the sport of the magistracy of Hirschberg, by depriving them of the sight of a hanging, adjudged in virtue of their high and mighty power and privileges; for, sooth to say, their offhand method of administering justice had tickled his fancy mightily. On sight of the confessor, an idea struck him which he immediately adopted. He followed the monk to his convent, stole from the vestiary a dress of the order, put it on, and, as Brother Graurock, presented himself at the gate of the prison, which was respectfully opened to him by the gaoler.
“Although I have but this moment quitted thee,” said he to the tailor, “yet my anxiety for the good of thy soul brings me once more back to thee. Confess, my son, whatever thou hast upon thy conscience, that I may give thee consolation.”
“Father,” replied Benedict, “my conscience troubles me not, but the thought of your fiery purgatory puts me into horrible fear and agony.”
Rubezahl, who, as may be supposed, had a very slight acquaintance with the subject which oppressed the poor prisoner’s imagination, returned gruffly: “What art talking about? I ask thee, wilt thou confess?”
“Oh, father,” sobbed the penitent, “but can’t you save me from burning. ’Tis horrible, even for a hundred years, to say nothing of a thousand!”
“Burning! hundred years! thousand years!” impatiently repeated the Gnome; “who wants thee to burn. If thou dost not like fire, keep out of it.”
Benedict looked so utterly amazed at this piece of advice that the extempore monk could not help thinking he must have committed some capital blunder, so he changed the conversation.
“Dost thou still think of Clara?” said he; “dost thou still love her as thy betrothed?”
Benedict was still more astonished than before, to hear this name so abruptly introduced by the very man, as he supposed, who had so recently, so earnestly, so solemnly, interdicted all mention of it, on pain of his high displeasure, and peril of the penitent’s soul; such was the revulsion in poor Benedict’s feelings that he burst into an agony of tears, sobbing as if his heart would break.
This was too much for the Gnome, who, as we have intimated, was a good fellow at bottom, and he resolved at once to “cut short all intermission,” and end his victim’s troubles.
“My poor Benedict,” said he, “be of good cheer; resume thy wonted spirits, thou shalt not die. I have learned that thou art innocent, and I have come to release thee from thy bonds and from prison.”
He then drew a key from his pocket. “Let us see,” said he, “if it will fit.”
The padlock flew open at a touch, and the chains fell from the hands and feet of the prisoner. The benevolent confessor having then changed dresses with the tailor, dismissed him with these instructions:
“Walk slowly, with an air as grave as a monk, till thou hast passed the guards at the doors of the prison and at the town gate; then tuck up thy robe, and be off as fast as thou canst to the mountains, nor stop till thou hast reached Liebenau, and art at Clara’s door; knock gently at her window; she awaits thee with heart’s impatience.”
Benedict at first imagined this was all a dream; but having, by dint of rubbing his eyes and soundly pinching his legs and arms, ascertained that he was quite awake, he threw himself at the feet of his deliverer, fervently embraced his knees, and would have poured out his thanks, but that joy deprived him of utterance. The excellent monk raised him up, gave him a roll and a long sausage to eat by the way, and pushed him out at the door. Just freed from his gyves, Benedict crossed the threshold of his prison with but a tottering step, trembling, moreover, lest he should be recognised. But his monk’s frock effectually covered all delinquencies, real and alleged, and he received, on passing out, every bit as much respect as Brother Graurock himself.
Clara meantime sat alone and full of suspense, in her little bed-room, listening to every breath of wind, earnestly following each passing footstep. Ever and anon she was certain some one had tapped at the window-shutter or rung the bell, and would run out with a beating heart, but only to encounter a succession of disappointments. Already the cocks in the neighbourhood had announced, by their “lively din,” the approach of day; already the convent bell had rung for matins, to Clara it had a funeral sound; already the watchman had blown his horn for the last time, to rouse the bread-bakers to their labour. The lamp of Clara was just going out for want of oil; nor, a prey to her anxiety, did she observe the bright circlet of happy omen, which shone around the extremity of the expiring wick. Seated on her bed-side, she wept bitterly, repeating gloomily: “Ah! _illustration_3.jpg)
BENEDICTS RETURN Benedict! Benedict! what a fatal day for thee and me is now dawning.” The sky over Hirschberg was blood-red, while along the horizon, clouds, which in her fancy took the shape of funereal crapes and palls, drove to and fro. Terror-struck at these awful appearances, she sank back on her bed in a state of utter stupefaction.
On a sudden three taps were heard at the window. A tremulous joy instantly ran through her frame; she started up, and a slight scream rose to her lips, as a well-known voice whispered through the key-hole, “Dearest love, art thou awake?” She flew to the door and exclaimed, “Benedict! Benedict! is it thyself, or is it but thy ghost?” When she saw the grey frock, she, with disappointment and alarm, fainted, but the warm kisses of her lover, who folded her in his arms, quickly restored her to life.
The first transports of their meeting over, Benedict related his miraculous deliverance from prison; but ere he had well completed the tale, the tongue clove to his mouth from thirst.
Clara ran and brought him a glass of fresh spring water. When he had drunk he felt excessively hungry; poor Clara had nothing to give him for breakfast but bread and salt, that panacea which some lovers imagine they can live very comfortably upon, but which don’t at all answer in practice. Benedict now bethought him of his sausage, which he forthwith drew from his pocket. He was quite surprised to find how heavy it was, for he had not noticed its weight at all as he came along; and you may be sure he was still more surprised, when, breaking it in two, no end of bright gold pieces rolled out upon the floor. At sight of this treasure Clara was not a little alarmed, for it at once struck her that this must be a part of the booty taken from the Jew; and that, consequently, her lover was not so innocent as the respectable gentleman whom she had met in the mountains had made him out to be. But Benedict assured her that his pious confessor had presented him with this treasure, probably, that it might enable them to establish themselves in life. And such frankness and sincerity was there in his voice and manner, that Clara at once saw this to be the real truth. The lovers gave a thousand heart’s thanks to their generous benefactor, and that very day they quitted their native town and went to Prague, where Master Benedict, with Clara his wife, lived happily together for a great many years, well to do as reputable citizens, and brought up a large family in comfort. And the fear of the gallows left on him an impression so salutary, that, contrary to the whole practice of the trade, to the very nature of tailors, he never cheated his customers, never cabbaged the smallest shred.
At the very moment when Clara, to her great joy, heard Benedict’s finger tapping at the window, another finger was tapping at the gates of the prison of Hirschberg. This was Brother Graurock, who, moved by zealous zeal, was up by daybreak, with intent to complete the conversion of his penitent, and to deliver him, already half a saint, into the hands of the executioner. Rubezahl having once undertaken the part of the delinquent, thought himself bound to go through with it, for the honour of justice. He therefore affected the most calm resignation to his fate, to the great joy of the pious ecclesiastic, who failed not to regard the happy result as the good seed of his own exertions. To fortify this most promising frame of mind, he addressed to his penitent one last discourse full of consolatory matter, to which Mr Rubezahl listened with exemplary attention. When he had finished, he ordered the prisoner’s chains to be taken off, that he might hear his confession, and give him absolution. But first a thought struck him: he would make the culprit once more go over the confession of faith, which it had cost him so much labour to impress upon his memory, in order that when at the gallows he might repeat it fluently, and without any mistake, for the benefit of the spectators. What was the good monk’s horror on finding that the wretched blockhead, overwhelmed with his fears, had in the course of the night clean forgotten the whole lesson? The indefatigable confessor, perfectly certain that nothing short of the direct intervention of Satan himself, could have effected such a catastrophe, had recourse to a powerful exorcism, but the Evil one would not budge an inch, nor could Creed or Paternoster be crammed into the prisoner’s dense skull.
Inexorable time held on his course; the hour arrived to which the tribunal had most reluctantly put off the execution, and not a minute longer would they give to save the criminal’s soul or their own. The wand was broken over the pro-tailor’s head, and the procession set out. The patient submitted with excellent grace to all the formalities usual on such occasions, up to the moment of being turned off. He then, however, indulged in the most extraordinary kicks and capers that were ever exhibited on that sort of tight-rope, twistimg and turning about, first on one side, then on the other, and he went on in this way, almost bursting with suppressed laughter, until the populace, thinking it was all the executioner’s fault, and that he was needlessly torturing the sufferer, got into a great rage and began throwing stones at the unfortunate official. Rubezahl, having no spite against the man, on observing this manifestation of feeling, stretched himself out as stiff as a board, and assumed all the appearance of death. The crowd then dispersed. Shortly afterwards, however, a few idlers, curious to see how the corpse of a criminal, who had been hanged, looked on closer inspection, returned to the gallows, and our waggish Gnome then took it into his head to indulge these philosophers with a second exhibition; he therefore not only recommenced his odd capers, throwing up his toes to his head, so as to become a regular hoop, but taking off his cap, made such horrible faces at them that the whole party fled, horror-struck. In the evening a report was current that the tailor had been so unartistically hanged that he was not yet dead, but was still jigging away on the gallows, which, coming to the ears of the magistrates, they assembled in conclave, and the first thing next morning, for nobody would venture in the dark, a deputation of the more valorous burghers proceeded to investigate the matter on the spot. On reaching the gallows they found hanging thereon nothing but a straw manikin, such as the farmers put into the fields to frighten birds withal. The worthy magistrates were altogether dumb-founded; however, as the only thing to be done, they privately burned the man of straw, and buried his memory; and to silence all popular rumours, gave out, that during the night a high wind had carried off the body of the thin slender tailor into the mountains.