At last the road divided, giving him his choice of two ways homeward; the one longer about, but safer, under the blessing of God, the other more direct, but haunted by spirits. Many a one in passing by that way had heard noises and seen sights that could be only told of in a cheerful assembly, and within arm’s-length of the holy-water stoup. But Wilherm feared nothing; so he struck at once into the shorter path, at a pace that made his heavy shoes ring against the stones.
Neither moon nor stars cheered the night, the leaves trooped before the driving wind, the brooks trickled dismally adown the hill-sides, the bushes shivered like a man afraid, and through the midnight stillness the steps of Wilherm echoed like a giant’s tread. Yet nothing daunted him, and on he went.
But as he passed the ruins of the old manor-house, he plainly heard the weather-vane call to him as it creaked,
“Go back, go back, go back!”
Still Wilherm went on. He came up to the waterfall, and the water murmured,
“Cross me not, cross me not, cross me not!”
Wilherm set his foot upon the well-worn stepping stones, and crossed the stream. He came to an old hollow oak-tree, and the wind that whistled in its branches cried,
“Stay here, stay here, stay here!”
But he struck his staff against the dead tree in passing, and hurried onwards.
At last he came into the haunted vale, and midnight struck from the three parish-church towers. Wilherm began to whistle a jovial air; but just as he came to the fourth verse, he heard the sound of tireless wheels, and saw a cart approaching covered with a funeral pall.