“I shiver when I think of it; but I will tell you nevertheless. When a young man, practising with other youths under the chief foresters, there used frequently to join us a town lad, a fine daring fellow, who, being a great lover of field sports, came out to us as often as he could. He would have made a good marksman, but was too flighty and thoughtless; so that he frequently missed his mark. Once, when we ridiculed his awkwardness, we provoked him into a rage, and he swore by all that was holy that he would soon fire with a more certain aim than any gamekeeper in the country, and that no animal should escape him, either in the air or on the earth. But he kept his light oath badly. A few days afterwards an unknown huntsman roused us early, and told us that a man was lying in the road and dying without assistance. It was poor Schmid. He was covered with wounds and blood, as if he had been torn by wild beasts: he could not speak, for he was quite senseless, with scarcely any appearance of life. He was conveyed to Prague, and just before his death declared, that he had been out with an old mountain huntsman to a cross road, in order to cast the magic balls, which are sure of hitting their mark; but that making some fault or omission, the demon had treated him so roughly that it would cost him his life.”
“Did he not explain?” asked William, shuddering.
“Surely,” replied the forester. “He declared before a court of justice, that he went out to the cross road with the old gamekeeper; that they made a circle with a bloody sword, and afterwards set it round with skulls and bones. The mountain hunter then gave his directions to Schmid as to what he was to do: he was to begin when the clock struck eleven to cast the balls, and neither to cast more nor fewer than sixty-three; one either above or under this number would, when the bell tolled midnight, be the cause of his destruction: neither was he to speak a single word during his work, nor move from the circle, whatever might happen, above, below, or around him. Fulfilling these conditions, sixty balls would be sure of hitting, and the remaining three only would miss. Schmid had actually begun casting the balls when, according to what we could gather from him, he saw such cruel and dreadful apparitions, that he at length shrieked and sprung out of the circle, falling senseless to the ground; from which trance he did not recover till under the hands of the physician in Prague.”
“Heaven preserve us!” said the forester’s wife, crossing herself. “It is a very deadly sin undoubtedly,” pursued Bertram, “and a true woodsman would scorn such practice. He needs nothing but skill, and a good gun, as you have lately experienced, William. I would not, for my own part, fire off such balls for any price; I should always fear the fiend would, at some time or other, conduct the ball to his own mark instead of to mine.”
Night drew round them with the conclusion of the forester’s story. He went to his quiet bed, but William remained in restless agony. It was in vain that he attempted to compose himself. Sleep fled entirely from his spirit. Strange objects flitted past him, and hovered like dark omens over his pillow. The strange soldier of the forest, Schmid, Catherine, the duke’s commissary, all rushed before his eyes, and his fevered imagination converted them into the most dreadful groups. Now, the miserable Schmid stood warningly before him, and hollowly pointed to his newly bleeding wounds; then the dark distorted face faded to the pallid features of Catherine wrestling with the strength of death; while the wild soldier of the forest stood mocking his agony with a hellish laugh of scorn. The scene then changed to his mind, and he stood in the forest before the commissary, preparing for the master-shot. He aimed—fired—missed, Catherine sunk down on the earth. Bertram drove him away; while the one-legged soldier, now again a friend, brought him fresh balls; but too late—the trial was over, and he was lost.
In this manner wore away his agonised night, and with the earliest dawn he sought the forest, hoping to meet with the soldier; the clear morning air chased away the dark images of sleep from his brow, and ennerved his drooping spirit. “Fool!” said he to himself, “because I cannot understand what is mysterious, must the mystery therefore be a sin? Is what I seek so contrary to nature that it requires the aid of spirits to obtain it? Does not man govern the mighty instinct of animals, and make them move according to the will of their master? Why then should he not be able, by natural means, to command the course of inanimate metal which receives force and motion only through him? Nature is rich in wonders which we do not comprehend, and shall I forfeit my happiness for an ignorant prejudice only? No! Spirits I will not call upon, but nature and her hidden powers I will challenge and use, even though unable to explain its mystery. I will seek the soldier, and, if I cannot find him, I will at least be bolder than Schmid, for I have a better cause. He was urged by presumption, I by love and honour.”
But the soldier appeared not, however earnestly William sought him; neither could any of those of whom he inquired give him the slightest information respecting him, and two days were wasted in these anxious and fruitless inquiries.
“Then be it so,” exclaimed the unhappy young man; and in a fit of despair he resolved to cast the magic balls in the forest. “My days,” he added, “are numbered to me; this night will I seek the cross road. Into its silent and solitary recess no one will dare to intrude; and the terrible circle will I not leave till the fearful work shall be done.”
But when the shadows of evening fell upon the earth, and after William had provided lead, bullet-mould, and coals, for his nocturnal occupation, he was gently detained by Bertram, who felt, he said, so severe an oppression, that he entreated him to remain in his chamber during the night. Catherine offered her services, but they were, to her astonishment, declined. “At any other time,” said her father, “I should have preferred you, but to-night it must be William. I shall be happier if he will remain with me.”
William hesitated. He grew sick in his inmost heart. He would have objected, but Catherine’s entreaties were so earnest, her voice so irresistible, that he had nothing to oppose against her wishes. He remained in the chamber, and in the morning Bertram’s dark fears had faded, and he laughed at his own absurdity. He proposed going to the forest, but William, who intended to devote the day to his search for the soldier, dissuaded him, and departed alone. He went, but returned disappointed, and once more resolved to seek the forest at night. As he approached the house, Catherine met him. “Beloved William,” said she, “you have a visitor, and a dear one, but you must guess who it is.”