l lands and had been
cultured in modern communities, been educated and raised in other
schools, he might have matured. But having no time for any other
diversions than might be found on his rustic homestead, he grew up
behind the plow horse, tramping in the dark, stony pasture land, eking
out his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania.

Now, Peter's life could have gone on unnoticed among these forgotten
hills, except for the strange visit of Martin G. Mirestone, student of
German history.

It was a cold night when Peter met Mirestone. Peter had been sitting up
rather late pondering over an old, yellowed book by the light of a
kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls sending shadows
scurrying back and forth creating all types of weird shapes and designs.
Peter huddled over the withered pages, every now and then glancing up at
the walls to watch the fantastic games that light and dark were playing.
Then putting his book aside for the night he prepared to go to bed.

He went over to the window to draw the shutters, stopping for an instant
to peer out into the gloom along the stony path that ran from his house
to an old foot-bridge about fifty feet away. Curling up from the gorge,
mist seemed to play among the rotted planks; it rose and fell in great
billowing blankets, sometimes concealing the structure from view.

* * * * *

Peter was about to latch the shutter and leave when his attention was
focused upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog--sort of fading
in from nowhere. It made its way across the narrow span like some
ghostly apparition. The mist enveloped his legs and clouded his
features. Peter drew back in terror, for the mere appearance of the man
coming out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant brain with
visions of death and _hexerei_.

As the figure drew closer Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak. All the
more ghostly it appeared with the cloak sailing behind him in the wind
like some devil's banner. Peter just stood transfixed as he watched the
stranger come up the winding road to his house.

Slamming the shutter he hurriedly fastened it and then turned to the
door to bolt that also. Too late. The door was thrown open revealing a
tall man clothed in black. His face was wreathed in a wide grin--a grin
that seemed to make fun of the grayish pallor of his face and the
ominous appearance of his wild garb. Before the man stepped