Some time elapsed ere William could recover from his terror. At length he compelled his trembling fingers to be steady, and cast a few balls without farther interruption. Again the well-known tower clock struck, and to him in the dreadful solitary circle, consoling as the voice of humanity, rose the sound from the habitations of men, but the clock struck the quarter thrice. He shuddered at the lightning-like flight of time; for a third part of his work was hardly done. Again the clock struck, for the fourth time!—Horror!—his strength was annihilated, every limb was palsied, and the mould fell out of his trembling hand. He listened, in the quiet resignation of despair, for the stroke of the full, the terrible, midnight hour. The sound hesitated—delayed—was silent. To palter with the awful midnight was too daring and too dangerous even to the dreadful powers of darkness. Hope again raised the sunk heart of William; he hastily drew out his watch, and beheld it pointing to the second quarter of the hour. He looked gratefully up towards heaven, and a feeling of piety moderated the transport, which, contrary to the laws of the dark world, would otherwise have burst forth in loud and joyous exclamations.
Strengthened, by the experience of the last half-hour, against any new delusion, William now went boldly on with his work. Every thing was silent around him, except that the owls snored in their uneasy sleep, and at intervals struck their beaks against the bones of the dead. Suddenly it was broken by a crackling among the bushes. The sound was familiar to the sportsman, and, as he expected, a huge wild boar broke through the briers, and came foaming towards the circle. Believing this to be a reality, he sprung hastily on his feet, seized his gun, and attempted to fire. Not a single spark came from the flint. Startled at his danger, he drew his hunting knife to attack it,—when the bristly savage, like the carriage and the horses, ascended high above his head, and vanished into the silent fields of air.
The anxious lover worked on steadily to regain the time he had so unhappily lost. Sixty balls were cast. He looked joyfully upwards; the clouds were dispersing, and the moon again threw her bright rays upon the surrounding country; he was rejoicing in the approaching end of his labours, when an agonised voice, in the tones of Catherine, shrieked out the name of “William!” In the next moment, he beheld his beloved dart from among the bushes, and gaze fearfully around her. Following her distracted steps, and panting closely behind her, trod the mad beggar woman, extending her withered arms towards the fugitive, whose light dress, fluttering in the wind, she repeatedly attempted to grasp. Catherine collected her expiring strength in one desperate effort to escape, when the long-sought soldier of the forest planted himself before her and delayed her flight. The hesitation of the moment gained time for the mad woman, who sprung wildly upon Catherine, and grasped her in her long and fleshless hands. William could endure it no longer, he dashed the last ball from his hand, and was on the point of springing from the circle, when the bell tolled midnight, and the delusion vanished. The owls knocked the skulls and bones cluttering against each other, and flew up again to their hiding places; the coals were suddenly extinguished; and William sunk, exhausted with fatigue, to the earth; but there was no rest for him in the forest; he was again disturbed by the slow and sullen approach of a stranger, mounted upon a huge and coal-black steed: he stopped before the demolished magic circle, and, addressing the huntsman,—“You have stood the trial well,” said he; “what do you require of me?”
“Of you, stranger, nothing,” replied William; “of that of which I had need, I have prepared for myself.”
“But with my assistance,” continued the stranger; “therefore a share of it belongs to me.” “Certainly not,” replied the huntsman; “I have neither hired you nor called upon you.”
The horseman smiled. “You are bolder than your equals are wont to be,” said he. “Take then the balls which you have cast: sixty for you, three for me. The first hit, the second miss. When we meet again you will understand me.”
William turned away. “I will not meet you again; I will never see you more,” he cried, trembling. “Why do you turn from me?” demanded the stranger, with a horrible laugh: “do you know me?” “No; no,” said the huntsman, shuddering; “I know you not; I will not even look upon you. Whoever you may be, leave me.”
The black horseman turned his steed. “The rising hairs of your head,” cried he with gloomy gravity, “declare that you do know me. You are right; I am he whom you name in the secrecy of your soul, and shudder to think you have done so.” At these words he disappeared, and the trees under which he had stood let their withered branches sink helpless and dead to the earth.
“Merciful Heaven! William,” said Catherine, on remarking his pale and distracted look on his return after midnight; “what has happened to you? you look as if you had just risen from the grave.” “It is the night air,” he replied; “and I am not well.” “But, William,” said the forester, who had just entered, “why then would you go to the forest: something has happened to you there. Boy, you cannot thus blind me.”
William was startled; the sad solemnity of Bertram’s manner struck him. “Yes, something has occurred,” said he; “but have patience for a few days, and all shall be explained to your satisfaction.” “Willingly, dear son,” interrupted the forester; “question him no further, Catherine. Go to your needful rest, William, and indulge in hope of the future. He who goes on in his occupation openly and honestly, never can be harmed by the evil spirits of the night.”