"And so, indeed, it was. As for the Frau Margaret, they found her body in an upper chamber, well-nigh hacked to pieces, and the hatchet with which the murder was committed lying beside her on the floor. He had pursued her, apparently, from room to room; for there were pools of blood and handfuls of long light hair, and marks of bloody hands along the walls, all the way from the kitchen to the spot where she lay dead."
"And so he was hanged?" said I, coming back to my original question.
"Yes, yes," replied the innkeeper and his womankind in chorus. "He was hanged—of course he was hanged."
"And it was the shock of this double tragedy that drove the younger Chessez into the church?"
"Just so, mein Herr."
"Well, he carries it in his face. He looks like a most unhappy man."
"Nay, he is not that, mein Herr!" exclaimed the landlady. "He is melancholy, but not unhappy."
"Well, then, austere."
"Nor is he austere, except towards himself."
"True, wife," said the innkeeper; "but, as I said, he carries that sort of thing too far. You understand, mein Herr," he added, touching his forehead with his forefinger, "the good pastor has let his mind dwell too much upon the past. He is nervous—too nervous, and too low."