“Are you in earnest, Herr Caspar?”
“Indeed I am. That man is poison to me. I must get rid of him and his mill.”
“Very right. You can do it, but you know the terms?”
“Certainly. You remove the mill, you ruin Balthazar, and after a time I become yours, I sign an article of agreement, writing my name in my own blood. That’s the regular thing, I believe!”
“You are right, old man, right as a trivet. Sign here.”
And he produced the document which he had with him. It stipulated that Balthazar’s mill was to be utterly destroyed, and Caspar’s not injured, and that things should be so fixed that Caspar’s would be the only respectable water-power possible on the mountain.
As a consideration for this friendly service, Caspar was, after twenty years of milling with no competition, to yield himself gracefully to the demon, body and soul.
Caspar whipped off his coat, cut his arm for blood, and signed.
The devil disappeared in a clap of thunder, leaving a perceptible odor of brimstone in the room, and Caspar went calmly to bed.
The next morning he heard that an immense stream of water had burst out of the mountain below his mill, and that it had swept poor Balthazar’s property entirely away—that not a vestige of it was left. He smiled grimly, doubled the size of his toll-dish, and went about his business.