William had need of all his dissimulation; for the old man’s observations so nearly meeting the truth, his forbearing love, and unshaken confidence in William’s honesty, altogether distracted his mind: he hastened to his room, determined to destroy the magical preparation. “But one ball—only one will I use,” exclaimed he, weeping aloud, with his folded hands held up to heaven; “and surely this determination will efface the sin of the deed I have committed. With a thousand acts of penitence I will make atonement for what is past, for I cannot now step back without betraying my happiness, my honour, and my love.” And with this resolution he calmed the tumult of his spirits, and met the rays of the morning sun with more tranquillity than he had dared to hope.
The commissary of the duke arrived; he proposed a shooting party in the forest, before the trial of skill took place. “For, though we must certainly retain the old form,” said he, “of the essay shot, yet the skill of the huntsman is, after all, best proved in the forest: so come, young marksman, to the woods.”
William’s cheek grew pale, and he earnestly tried to excuse himself from accompanying them. But, when this was refused by the chief forester, he entreated at least to be allowed to fire his trial shot before their departure. Old Bertram shook his head, doubtingly: “William,” said he, “should my suspicion of yesterday be just”—“Father!” replied the youth; and no longer daring to hesitate, he departed with them to the forest.
Bertram had in vain endeavoured to suppress his forebodings and assume a cheerful countenance. Catherine too was dejected, and it was not until the arrival of the priest that she recollected her nuptial garland: her mother had locked it up, and, in her haste to open the chest, broke the lock, and was obliged to send into the village for another wreath, as too much time had been wasted in endeavouring to recover the first. “Let them give you the handsomest,” said Anne to the little messenger, “the very handsomest they have.” The boy accordingly chose the most glittering, and the seller, who misunderstood him, gave him a death garland, composed of myrtle and rosemary, intermingled with silver. The mother and daughter beheld and recognised the mysterious intimation of fate; they embraced each other in silence, and endeavoured to smile away their terror, in imputing it to the boy’s mistake. Again the broken lock was tried; it opened easily now; the wreaths were changed, and the bridal garland was twined around Catherine’s brilliant locks.
The sportsmen returned from the forest. The commissary was inexhaustible on the subject of William’s wondrous skill. “It almost appears ridiculous,” said he, “after such proofs, to require any further trial; yet, in honour of the old custom, we must perform what appears superfluous; we will therefore finish the business as quickly as possible. There, upon that pillar, sits a dove, shoot it.” “For God’s sake,” said Catherine, hastily approaching, “do not shoot that dove. Alas! in my sleep last night I was myself a dove, and my mother, while fastening a ring round my neck, on your approaching us became covered with blood.”
William drew back his gun; but the chief forester smiled. “So timid, little maiden!” said he, “that will never do for a huntsman’s bride: come, courage! courage!—or is the dove a favourite, perhaps?”
“Ah, no,” she replied; “it is but fear.”
“Well then,” replied the commissary, “have courage; and now, William, fire!”
The shot fell, and, in the same moment, Catherine sunk, with a loud scream, to the earth. “Silly girl,” exclaimed the commissary, lifting her up: but a stream of blood flowed over her face, her forehead was shattered, for the ball of the rifle was lodged in the wound. William turned, on hearing loud shrieks behind him, and beheld his Catherine pale, weltering in her blood, and by her side the soldier of the forest, who, with a fiendish laugh of scorn, pointed to his dying victim, and cried aloud to William, “Sixty hit, three miss!”
“Accursed fiend!” shrieked the wretched youth, striking at the detested form with his sword, “hast thou thus deceived me?” His agony permitted no further expression, for he sunk senseless to the earth by the side of the victim bride. The commissary and priest in vain endeavoured to console the childless heart-broken parents. The mother had scarcely laid the prophetic garland of death upon the bosom of the bridal corpse, when her sorrow and life expired with her last-shed tear: the solitary father soon followed her, and the miserable William closed his life in the mad-house.