“How’s that managed?”
“The bride and bridegroom must have cuts made in their heels, and some of their own blood must then be poured back into those wounds. I’ve got the bridegroom’s blood stowed away in my right-hand pocket, and the bride’s in my left.”
The Soldier listened to this without letting a single word escape him. Then the Warlock began boasting again.
“Whatever I wish,” says he, “that I can do!”
“I suppose it’s quite impossible to get the better of you?” says the Soldier.
“Why impossible? If any one were to make a pyre of aspen boughs, a hundred loads of them, and were to burn me on that pyre, then he’d be able to get the better of me. Only he’d have to look out sharp in burning me; for snakes and worms and different kinds of reptiles would creep out of my inside, and crows and magpies and jackdaws would come flying up. All these must be caught and flung on the pyre. If so much as a single maggot were to escape, then there’d be no help for it; in that maggot I should slip away!”
The Soldier listened to all this and did not forget it. He and the Warlock talked and talked, and at last they arrived at the grave.
“Well, brother,” said the Warlock, “now I’ll tear you to pieces. Otherwise you’d be telling all this.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t you deceive yourself; I serve God and the Emperor.”
The Warlock gnashed his teeth, howled aloud, and sprang at the Soldier—who drew his sword and began laying about him with sweeping blows. They struggled and struggled; the Soldier was all but at the end of his strength. “Ah!” thinks he, “I’m a lost man—and all for nothing!” Suddenly the cocks began to crow. The Warlock fell lifeless to the ground.