They rode forward; Sintram’s horse still showing signs of fear, the faithful dog still whining; but both obedient to their master’s will. The knight was calm and steadfast. The snow had slipped down from the smooth rocks, and by the light of the rising moon could be seen various strange twisted shapes on their sides, some looking like snakes, and some like human faces; but they were only formed by the veins in the rock and the half-bare roots of trees, which had planted themselves in that desert place with capricious firmness. High above, and at a great distance, the castle of Drontheim, as if to take leave, appeared again through an opening in the rocks. The knight then looked keenly at his companion, and he almost felt as if Weigand the Slender were riding beside him.
“In God’s name,” cried he, “art thou not the shade of that departed knight who suffered and died for Verena?”
“I have not suffered, I have not died; but ye suffer, and ye die, poor mortals!” murmured the stranger. “I am not Weigand. I am that other, who was so like him, and whom thou hast also met before now in the wood.”
Sintram strove to free himself from the terror which came over him at these words. He looked at his horse; it appeared to him entirely altered. The dry, many-coloured oak-leaves on its head were waving like the flames around a sacrifice, in the uncertain moonlight. He looked down again, to see after his faithful Skovmark. Fear had likewise most wondrously changed him. On the ground in the middle of the road were lying dead men’s bones, and hideous lizards were crawling about; and, in defiance of the wintry season, poisonous mushrooms were growing up all around.
“Can this be still my horse on which I am riding?” said the knight to himself, in a low voice; “and can that trembling beast which runs at my side be my dog?”
Then some one called after him, in a yelling voice, “Stop! stop! Take me also with you!”
Looking round, Sintram perceived a small, frightful figure with horns, and a face partly like a wild boar and partly like a bear, walking along on its hind-legs, which were those of a horse; and in its hand was a strange, hideous weapon, shaped like a hook or a sickle. It was the being who had been wont to trouble him in his dreams; and, alas! it was also the wretched little Master himself, who, laughing wildly, stretched out a long claw towards the knight.
The bewildered Sintram murmured, “I must have fallen asleep; and now my dreams are coming over me!”
“Thou art awake,” replied the rider of the little horse, “but thou knowest me also in thy dreams. For, behold! I am Death.” And his garments fell from him, and there appeared a mouldering skeleton, its ghastly head crowned with serpents; that which he had kept hidden under his mantle was an hour-glass with the sand almost run out. Death held it towards the knight in his fleshless hand. The bell at the neck of the little horse gave forth a solemn sound. It was a passing bell.
“Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!” prayed Sintram; and full of earnest devotion he rode after Death, who beckoned him on.