All at once the stranger let fall the reins, and as they trailed on the ground, he snatched the whip from Walther's hand, gave a sudden leap into the air, and vaulted on the back of the near horse, where he sat at ease, and drove postillion, without their being able to help themselves.
"Alas, we have no arms!" groaned the Burgomaster; "we may as well be resigned to our fate. Kiss me, my children; you may never kiss your old papa again!"
On this, the whole quartette fell to weeping, blowing their noses most earnestly from time to time, when, just as their grief was at its height, and they were fairly sobbing in each other's arms, a sound of music broke upon their ears! The next moment lights gleamed through the trees, the sleigh took a sharp turn, passed through an open gate, and drew up before the very door of—Olè's! For, in reality, both roads led to the inn, although one was much more intricate and less frequented than the other.
The Von Geirsteins were for a moment too much astounded to speak. Then the mysterious driver, swinging himself lightly off his horse, and doffing his fur cap, showing them a face not only handsome, but perfectly familiar to them, exclaimed:
"You see, my dear friends, that it was neither a bandit nor His Satanic Majesty who drove you by the nearest road to a robber's castle or the lower regions, but your very good neighbor, Fritz Von Eisenfeldt, who has had at once the pleasure and amusement of taking you safe and sound to Olè's, after all!"
As the wind uttered these last words, it whisked up the chimney and disappeared. The literary man sat upright in his chair with a sudden start, and opened his eyes wide.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "have I been dreaming, or has the wind really related the tale?" He could not at all tell this, but he remembered every word of the story, and wrote it on—yes! this very piece of paper, where you now read it!
SECOND EVENING.
The following evening the literary man could not but think of the advice of the wind. He went to the window, and looked out on the street, to see if there might not be a story there.
The houses opposite were as handsome as on this side of the way, and exactly like them; the gas lamps burned brilliantly, and everything appeared as genteel and stupid as could possibly be conceived. "There's not a story to be met with in this part of the town," thought the literary man. "I must go out, and see if I can find one elsewhere."