and walked slowly down to the town-house-square, where the rioters, armed with pikes, lances, and lighted torches, were laying waste the mansion of the Worshipful head of the town.
Master Wilibald placed himself near a pillar, and began to play his Grandfather’s Dance. Scarcely were the first notes of this favourite tune heard, when the rage-distorted countenances became smiling and cheerful, the frowning brows lost their dark expression, pikes and torches fell out of the threatening fists, and the enraged assailants moved about marking with their steps the measure of the music. At last, the whole multitude began to dance, and the square, that was lately the scene of riot and confusion, bore now the appearance of a gay dancing assembly. The piper, with his magic bag-pipe, led on through the streets, all the people danced behind him, and each citizen returned jumping to his home, which shortly before he had left with very different feelings.
The Mayor, saved from this imminent danger, knew not how to express his gratitude; he promised to Master Wilibald every thing he might demand, even were it half his property. But the bag-piper replied, smiling, saying his expectations were not so lofty, and that for himself he wanted no temporal goods whatever; but since his Lordship the Mayor had pledged his word to grant to him in every thing he might demand, so he beseeched him, with due respect, to grant fair Emma’s hand for his Wido. But the haughty Mayor was highly displeased at this proposal. He made every possible excuse; and as Master Wilibald repeatedly reminded him of his promise, he did, what the despots of those dark times were in the habit of doing, and which those of our enlightened days still practise, he declared his dignity offended; pronounced Master Wilibald to be a disturber of the peace, an enemy of the public security, and allowed him to forget in a prison the promises of his Lord the Mayor. Not satistied herewith, he accused him of witchcraft, caused him to he tried by pretending he was the very bag-piper and rat-catcher of Hameln, who was at that time, and is still, in so bad a repute in the German provinces, for having carried off by his infernal art all the children of that ill-fated town. The only difference, said the wise Mayor, betweeen the two cases was, that at Hameln only the children had been made to dance to his pipe, but here young and old seemed under the same magical influence. By such artful delusions, the Mayor turned every merciful heart from the prisoner. The dread of necromancy, and the example of the children of Hameln, worked so strongly, that sheriffs and clerks were writing day and night. The secretary calculated already the expence of the funeral pile; the sexton petitioned for a new rope to toll the dead-bell for the poor sinner; the carpenters prepared scaffolds for the spectators of the expected execution; and the judges rehearsed the grand scene, which they prepared to play at the condemnation, of the famous bag-piping rat-catcher. But although justice was sharp, Master Wilibald was sill sharper: for as he once had laughed very heartily over the important preparations for his end, he now laid himself down upon his straw and died!
Shortly before his death, he sent for his beloved Wido, and addressed him for the last time.—“Young man,” said he “thou seest, that in thy way of viewing mankind and the world I can render thee no assistance. I
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