“Well,” continued I, after recovering a little, “what about this compact—when and where was it made?”
“It was made some three days ago, at the Devil’s Hoof Tavern. You may remember that you and Wolstang were drinking there at that time.”
“Yes, I remember it well enough; but I understood that I was putting my name to a receipt for fifty gilders which he paid me. I never read the writing; I merely subscribed it.”
“That was a pity; for really you have bound yourself as firmly as signing with a person’s own blood can do.”
“Did I sign it with my own blood?” said I, alarmed.
“Exactly so. You may recollect of cutting your finger. I had the pleasure of stanching the blood, a sufficient quantity of which was nevertheless collected to write this document.”
“Then you were present,” said I;—“yes, I have a recollection of your face, now that you mention the circumstance. You were then dressed as a clergyman, if I mistake not.”
“Precisely.”
“And what,” continued I, “are the conditions on which I hold this strange existence? Suppose Wolstang dies?”