field of meadow grass and it was all over!

Now about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin,
Petrus Mauerer, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his
heir. This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us.
We were at dinner, talking on indifferent matters, when the burgomaster
recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it.

"'Tis strange, cousin," said I, "truly strange. And you have no other
information concerning the unknown?"

"None."

"And you have found nothing which could give you a clew as to his
purpose?"

"Absolutely nothing, Christian."

"But, as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the
cistern? On what did he live?"

The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and
replied with:

"To your health, cousin."

"To yours."

We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept
the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I
mused with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear
and disappear in this world like the grass of the field, without
leaving the least memory or the least regret.

"Cousin," I resumed, "how far may it be from here to the ruins of
Geierstein?"

"Twenty minutes' walk at the most. Why?"

"Because I should like to see them."

"You know that we have a meeting of the municipal council, and that I
can't accompany you."

"Oh! I can find them by myself."

"No, the rural guard will show you the way; he has nothing better to
do."

And my worthy cousin, having rapped on his glass, called his servant:

"Katel, go and find Hans Goerner--let him hurry, and get here by two
o'clock. I must be going."

The servant went out and the rural guard was not tardy in coming.

He was directed to take me to the ruins.

While the burgomaster proceeded gravely toward the hall of the
municipal council, we were already climbing the hill. Hans Goerner,
with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct. At the
same moment the rocky ribs of the plateau, the blue distances of
Hundsrueck, the sad crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling
of the Hirschwiller bell summoning the notables to the council, the
rural guardsman panting and catching at the brambles--assumed in my
eyes a sad and severe tinge, for which I could not account: it was the
story of the hanged man which took the color out of the prospect.

The cistern staircase s