Kasper and Hans Goerner, whinger at his side, by
running overtook Master Petrus in the holly path.

All three made their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein.

These ruins, which are twenty minutes' walk from the village, seem to
be insignificant enough; they consist of the ridges of a few decrepit
walls, from four to six feet high, which extend among the brier bushes.
Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus, the Roman camp of
Holderlock, or vestiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy. The
only thing about these ruins which could be considered remarkable is a
stairway to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase,
instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete
turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that
the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening. Is it an
architectural freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd
construction? It matters little to us. The result was to cause in the
cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a
shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path,
murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words
spoken by people passing the foot of the hill.

Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards
and gardens of Hirschwiller.

"I see nothing," the burgomaster would say, turning up his nose
derisively.

"Nor I either," the rural guard would repeat, imitating the other's
tone.

"It's down in the hole," muttered the shepherd.

"We shall see, we shall see," returned the burgomaster.

It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon
the opening of the cistern. As I have said, the night was clear,
limpid, and perfectly still.

The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those
nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the
shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The
blooming brier and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odor, and
the frogs of a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed
with silences. But all these details escaped the notice of our good
rustics; they thought of nothing but laying hands on the _spirit_.

When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened,
then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared--nothing stirred.

"The devil!" said the burgomaster, "we forg