Towards Christmas time, in the year 1780, as I lay soundly sleeping in my room at the Swan Tavern, in TÜbingen, old Gideon Sperver burst suddenly into my room, crying, "Gaston, my boy, I have come to take you back with me to the Castle! You know Nideck, twenty miles from here,—the estate of my master, the Count of Nideck!"

My failure to respond was perhaps due to the fact that I had not seen my worthy foster-father for twenty years, that in this time he had grown a full beard, and that now, in my half-aroused condition, he appeared before me thus, with a huge fur cap pulled down over his ears, and holding an ill-smelling lantern just under my nose.

"In the first place," I replied, "let's take up things in their proper order. Who are you?"

"Who am I?" repeated the good fellow, with such genuine surprise and distress in his tones that I felt a somewhat embarrassing sense of ingratitude. "What! Don't you remember your foster-father, Gideon Sperver, the General's old ranger who saved your life as a child, in the swamp of the Losser?" And his voice became so husky that he stopped and cleared his throat.

"Ah, my dear Gideon, I know you now, indeed! Give me your hand!" We gripped each other's hands, and Sperver, passing his sleeve across his eyes, continued, "You know Nideck?"

"Of course, by reputation. What are you doing there?"

"I am the Count's steward."

"And how did you happen to come hither?"

"The young Countess Odile sent me to fetch you."

"Very good. When are we to start?"

"At once. It is an urgent matter; the old Count is very ill, and his daughter begged me to lose no time. The horses are waiting for us below."

"But, my dear Gideon, just look at the weather; it has been snowing for three days!"

"Pshaw! We are not starting on a boar hunt. Put on your fur coat, fasten on your spurs, and we are off! Meanwhile, I will order a bite for you to eat."

He disappeared, and, as I never could refuse the chosen companion of my childhood anything from my youngest days, I hurriedly dressed myself, and lost no time in following him into the dining-room.

"Ah, I knew you would not let me go back alone!" he cried delightedly. "Swallow down this slice of ham and drink a stirrup-cup, for the horses are growing impatient. I have strapped your valise to the saddle."

"What is that for?"

"You will be needed for some days at Nideck; that is indispensable. I will explain everything to you on the way."

We went down into the inn yard. At that moment two horsemen arrived. They seemed exhausted, and their horses were white with lather.

Sperver, who was a great lover of horses, exclaimed in surprise, "What beautiful animals! They are Wallachians; fine and swift as deer. Come, make haste and throw a blanket over them, my lad," he continued, addressing the hostler, "or they may take cold!"

The travellers, enveloped in white astrakhan greatcoats, passed close to us just as were putting foot in the stirrup. I could only distinguish the long brown moustache of one, and his dark eyes that were singularly bright. They entered the inn. The groom released our bridles and wished us a safe journey. We set off at a gallop.

Sperver rode a pure Mecklenberg, and I was mounted on a spirited horse of Ardennes; we fairly flew over the snow. In ten minutes we had left the outskirts of TÜbingen behind us. It was beginning to clear up. All trace of our road had become obliterated by the considerable fall of snow. Our only companions were the ravens of the Black Forest, spreading their great hollow wings above the drifts, lighting for an instant here and there, and crying in discordant notes, "Misery! Misery! Misery!" Gideon, buried in his coat of wild-cat skin and fur cap, galloped on ahead. Suddenly he turned in the saddle and called, "Hey, Gaston! This is what they call a fine winter's morning."

"So it is; but a bit severe."

"I like the clear cold weather; it makes you tingle. If old Parson Toby had the courage to start out in such weather, he would never feel his rheumatism again."

I smiled as well as my stiff cheeks would let me. After an hour of this furious pace Sperver slowed down and let me catch up with him. "Gaston," he said in a serious tone, "you ought to know the circumstances of the master's illness."

"I was just thinking of that."

"The more so, as a great number of doctors have already visited the Count."

"Indeed."

"Yes; they have come from Paris, Berlin, and even Switzerland, and have made a most careful study of their patient and employed all their skill, but to no purpose."

As no answer seemed called for, I remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"The Count's disease is a terrible affliction somewhat akin to madness. It returns every year on the same day and at the same hour; his eyes grow red as fire, he shudders from head to foot, and he mutters incoherently."

"The man has undoubtedly become unbalanced through trouble and adversity."

"No! Not so! He possesses power and wealth and untold honors,—everything, in short, that other people most desire; but the most singular part of it is that he fancies if his daughter would only consent to marry, it would effect his cure; and she as strangely refuses even to entertain the idea, maintaining that she has consecrated her life to God. The Count cannot bear to think that the ancient race of Nideck must perish with her."

"How did his illness first declare itself?"

"Suddenly, twelve years ago."

As he spoke my companion seemed to be trying to recall something. "One evening," he began, after a moment, "I was alone with the Count in the armory of the Castle. It was about Christmas time. We had been hunting wild boar all day in the gorges of the Rhethal, and had returned at nightfall bringing with us two poor hounds ripped open the length of their bellies. It was just such weather as this, cold and snowy. The Count was striding up and down the room, his head upon his breast and his hands clasped behind his back, like a man who is deep in thought. From time to time he paused, and looked at the high windows that were fast becoming veiled in snow, while I sat in the chimney-corner warming myself, thinking of my dogs, and silently cursing all the wild boar of the Black Forest. For fully two hours everybody in the Castle had been asleep, and there was no sound to break the silence, save the noise of the Count's heavy spurred boots on the flagstones. I distinctly recall how a raven, doubtless borne along by a gust of wind, came flapping against the panes with a discordant cry, and how the sheets of snow fell from the windows. The casements on that side of the house were suddenly changed from white to black."

"Have these details any bearing on your master's illness?"

"Let me finish. You shall see for yourself. At the raven's cry, the Count suddenly halted; his eyes became fixed, his cheeks ashy pale, and he bent his head forward like a hunter who hears the game approaching. I went on warming myself, thinking meanwhile, 'Won't he go to bed soon?' For, to tell the truth, I was dropping with fatigue. I can see it all, Gaston; I am sitting there now! Scarcely had the raven uttered its harsh croak above the abyss, when the old clock struck eleven. At the same moment the Count turned on his heel; he listened; his lips moved; I saw him totter like a drunken man. He stretched out his hands, his teeth tightly clenched, and his eyeballs shining like fire. 'My lord,' I cried, 'what is the matter?' But he burst into mad laughter, stumbled, and fell upon the floor, face downwards. I called for help immediately; the servants hurried to the room. Sebalt and I raised the Count and moved him to the bed near the window; but just as I was about to cut my master's cravat with my hunting-knife,—for I believed it was a stroke of apoplexy,—the Countess Odile entered, and threw herself upon the body of her father, uttering such piteous cries that I tremble yet when I think of it. From that hour, Gaston, a pall has hung over the Castle, and Heaven only knows when it will be lifted. Every year, at the same day and hour, the Count is seized with these strange convulsions. The attacks last from a week to a fortnight, during which he howls and cries in a most terrifying manner. Then he slowly recovers. He is pale and weak, and moves about steadying himself on the chairs of his chamber, and turning fearfully to look, at the slightest sound, seemingly afraid of his own shadow. The young Countess, the sweetest creature in the world, never leaves him; but he cannot bear the sight of her at these times. 'Go! Go!' he cries, stretching out his arms before him. 'Leave me! Haven't I suffering enough as it is, without your hated presence?' It is abominable to hear him, and I, who am always at his side in the chase, and would readily risk my life to serve him,—I could throttle him at these moments, when I witness his monstrous treatment of his own daughter!"

Sperver, whose swarthy face had assumed a gloomy look, set spurs to his horse, and we continued at a gallop. I had become thoughtful. The cure of such a malady seemed to me exceedingly doubtful, if not indeed impossible. It was evidently some moral disease. In order successfully to combat it, it would be necessary to trace it back to its origin, and this origin was doubtless lost in the vagueness of the past. These reflections tended to increase my apprehension. The old steward's story, far from inspiring me with confidence, had depressed me,—a doubtful state of affairs to insure success.

It was about three o'clock when we descried the ancient Castle of Nideck on the furthest horizon. In spite of the vast intervening distance, we could distinguish the high turrets suspended like baskets from the angles of the edifice. It was as yet but a mere outline, hardly distinguishable from the blue sky; almost imperceptibly the red granite peaks of the Vosges appeared. At that moment Sperver slowed up and cried, "Gaston, we must get there before night shuts in. Forward!"

But it was in vain that he plunged his spurs into his horse. The animal remained motionless, with his fore legs planted firmly before him, his mane bristling up with fear, and emitting two streams of bluish vapor from his nostrils.

"What does this mean?" cried Gideon, astonished. "Do you see anything, Gaston? Can there—" He did not finish his sentence; pointing to a dark object crouching in the snow at a distance of some fifty paces on the hillside, he exclaimed, in a tone of such distress that I was a good deal startled, "The Black Plague!" Following with my glance the direction of his extended arm, I was astonished to perceive an aged woman, her legs bent up between her clasped arms, and so ragged that her red elbows protruded from the sleeves of her dress, seated in the snow. A few locks of gray hair fell in disorder about her thin, red, vulture-like neck. Singularly enough, a bundle of some sort rested on her knees, and her haggard eyes wandered over the snowy plain. Sperver had gone far to the right and kept as far as possible out of the old creature's way. I had some trouble in overtaking him.

"What the deuce is the meaning of all this? Are you joking?" I cried.

"Joking! God forbid that I should jest about such matters. I am not superstitious, but this meeting with the old witch frightens me." Then, turning his head and seeing that the old creature had not stirred, and that her eyes were still fixed on the plain before her, he seemed somewhat reassured.

"Gaston," he said solemnly, "you are a man of learning, and are acquainted with many subjects of which I know nothing, but believe me, a man is wrong to laugh at things he cannot understand. It is not without reason that I call this woman the Black Plague. Throughout the Black Forest she is known by that name, but here at Nideck she has won a special right to it."

My companion rode on for a few minutes without speaking. "Come, Sperver, explain yourself more clearly! I confess I don't understand you in the least."

"The hag that you saw down there is the cause of all our misfortunes. It is she who is slowly killing the Count."

"How is that possible? How can she exercise such an influence?"

"I cannot tell you. But one thing is certain: on the first day of the Count's attack, at the very moment even, you have only to climb up to the signal-tower and you will see the Black Plague crouching like a dark speck in the long stretch of snow between the TÜbingen Forest and the Castle of Nideck. Every day she comes a little nearer, and at her approach, the Count's attacks grow worse; sometimes when the trembling fits come upon him, he says to me, 'Gideon, she is coming.' I hold his arms and try to quiet him, but he keeps muttering with staring eyes, 'She is coming! Oh, oh! She is coming!' Then I climb the tower and survey the landscape. You know I have a keen eye, Gideon. At last, amid the distant mists, between sky and earth, I distinguish a black speck. The next morning the speck has grown larger; the Count starts up in his bed with chattering teeth. On the second day we can see the old creature distinctly, almost within rifle-shot on the plain; and then it is that the Count's jaws become set like a vice, his eyes roll in his head, and he utters terrible cries. Ah, the cursed witch! A score of times I have brought my carbine to bear on her, but the poor Count has prevented me from drawing the trigger, crying, 'No, Sperver; shed no blood!' Poor man! He is sparing the creature who is killing him by inches; he is nothing but skin and bones."

My good friend Gideon was too much taken up with the vision of the hag to be brought back to calm reason. Moreover, who can define the exact limits of the possible? Do we not each day see the realm of reality extend itself more widely? These hidden influences, these unseen bonds, this world of magnetism that some proclaim with all the ardor of the fanatic, and others deny with scorn and ridicule,—who can say that all these forces will not some day revolutionize our universe? It is easy to arrogate to yourself a claim to superior knowledge in the face of such general ignorance. I confined myself, therefore, to begging Sperver to moderate his anger, and beyond all things not to fire upon the Black Plague, warning him that it would very probably bring grave misfortune upon himself.

"Bah! I will risk all that!" he exclaimed; "the worst they could do would be to hang me."

"But that would be a good deal for an honest man to suffer."

"As well die one way as another. In this case, you are suffocated, that's all. I would as lief die that way as to receive a blow on my head, or a stroke of apoplexy, or give up smoking, drinking, and a good digestion."

"My dear Gideon, that sounds odd, coming from a graybeard."

"Graybeard or not, that is the way I look at it. I always keep a bullet in my rifle at the service of the witch; from time to time, I renew the priming, and if ever the occasion offers—" He finished his sentence by an expressive gesture.

"You are wrong, Sperver! I am of the same opinion as the Count: 'no bloodshed.' Reconsider, and discharge your piece against the first wild boar you happen upon."

These words seemed to have some effect upon the old huntsman; he dropped his chin on his breast, and his face assumed a thoughtful expression.

By this time, we were climbing the wooded slopes which separate the squalid hamlet of Tiefenbach from the Castle of Nideck. Night had overtaken us, and as it often happens after a clear, cold day in winter, the snow was beginning to fall again, and large flakes fell and melted on our horses' manes. The animals whinnied and increased their pace, cheered doubtless by the prospect of a warm shelter. Every now and then, Sperver turned and looked behind him with evident anxiety, and I was not free from a certain indefinable apprehension as I reflected upon the strange account of his master's malady which the steward had given me. Besides, man's spirit harmonizes itself with its surroundings, and, for my part, I know of nothing more melancholy than a forest covered with snow and hoar frost, and stirred by a moaning wind; the trees have a sombre, icy look that chills you to the heart.

As we climbed the slope, the oak-trees became fewer, and the birches, straight and white as marble columns, stretched one beyond another, far out to the horizon line intersecting the dark arches of the larch-trees. Suddenly, as we emerged from a thicket, the ancient fortress reared up before us, its dark extent sprinkled with points of light. Sperver had pulled up before a funnel-shaped gateway, cut deep in the rock between two towers, and barred by an iron grating.

"Here we are!" he cried, leaning over the horse's head and seizing the deer's-foot bell-handle. The clear tinkle of a bell sounded in the interior.

After a few minutes of waiting, a lantern appeared at the end of the archway, dispersing the gloom, and showing us within its circle of light a little dwarf with a yellow beard and broad shoulders, enveloped in furs from head to foot. He came slowly towards us and pressed his great flat face against the grating, straining his eyes to make us out in the darkness.

"Is that you, Sperver?" he asked in a harsh voice.

"Yes. Open the door, Knapwurst!" cried the huntsman. "Don't you know how devilish cold it is?"

"Ah, I know you now," replied the little fellow; "it is you indeed! You always speak as though you would swallow people whole."

The door opened, and the gnome, raising his lantern towards me with an odd grimace, greeted me with, "Welcome, Monsieur Doctor," but in a tone as much as to say, "Here is another one who will go the way of the rest." Then he quietly closed the door, while we dismounted, and this done, he came to take our horses by the bridle.