But, without answering, he merely pointed to the figure huddled up in the corner; it was an old woman, so very advanced in extreme old age, so yellow and wrinkled, with such a hooked nose, fingers so skinny, and lips so lean, that she looked like an old owl with all its feathers gone. There were only a few hairs left on the back of her head; the rest of her skull was as bare of covering as an egg. A threadbare ragged linen gown covered her poor skeleton figure. She was sightless, and the expression of her face was one of constant reverie.
Christian, noticing my uncle's inquiring look, turned his head and said quietly—
"It's old Irmengarde, the old teller of legends. She is waiting to die till the old tower falls into the torrent."
Uncle Bernard, stupefied, looked at the woodman; he did not seem inclined to joke; on the contrary, he looked serious.
"Come, Christian," said the good man, "you mean to have your joke."
"Joke! no indeed, old and feeble as you see her, that old woman knows everything; the spirit of the ruins is in her. She was living when the old lords of the castle lived."
Now my old uncle was very nearly falling backwards at this astounding disclosure.
"But what do you mean?" he cried; "the castle of Nideck has been down these thousand years!"
"What if it was two thousand years?" said the woodman, making the sign of the cross as a new flash lighted up the valley; "what does that prove? The spirit of the ruins lives in her. A hundred and eight years Irmengarde has lived with this spirit in her. Before her it was in old Edith of Haslach; before Edith in some other—"
"Do you believe that?"