“I will do all you ask.”
“Meet me at the city gate to-morrow at midnight.”
The architect returned to Cologne, the image of the marvellous temple glowing in his mind.
“I shall be immortal,” he said; “my name will never die. But,” he added, “it is the price of my soul. No masses can help me, doomed, doomed forever!”
He told his strange story to his old nurse on his return home.
She went to consult the priest.
“Tell him,” said the priest to the old woman, “to secure the design before he signs the contract. As soon as he gets the plan into his hand let him present to the old man, who is a demon, the relics of the martyrs and the sign of the cross.”
At midnight he appeared at the gate. There stood the little old man.
“Here is your design,” said the latter, handing him a roll of parchment. “Now you shall sign the bond that gives me yourself in payment.”
The architect grasped the plan.