“Unfortunately the examination was interrupted by the noon recess and, while we were at lunch, the dog of a Jew hanged himself with a garter.  What do you say to that?  Aaron is a common name, to be sure,” etc.

“What do you say to that?” repeated the Baron; “and what reason then did the fool of a fellow have for running away?”

The court clerk reflected.  “Well, perhaps on account of the forest thefts which we were just then investigating.  Isn’t it said:  ’The wicked man flees from his own shadow?’ Mergel’s conscience was dirty enough, even without this spot.”

With these considerations they let the matter drop.  Frederick had gone, disappeared; and John Nobody—­poor, neglected John—­with him on the same day.  A long, long time had passed—­twenty-eight years, almost half a lifetime.  The Baron was grown very old and gray, and his good-natured assistant, Kapp, had been long since buried.  People, animals, and plants had arisen, matured, passed away; only Castle B., gray and dignified as of old, still looked down on the cottages which, like palsied old people, always seemed about to fall, yet always kept their balance.

It was Christmas Eve, December 24, 1788.

The narrow passes were covered with snow, probably about twelve feet deep, and the penetrating, frosty air froze the window panes in the heated room.  It was almost midnight, and yet faint lights flickered from the snow mounds everywhere, and in every house the inmates were on their knees awaiting in prayer the advent of the holy Christmas festival, as is the custom in Catholic countries, or, at least, as was general in those times.  That night a figure moved slowly down from the heights of Brede toward the village.  The wanderer seemed to be very tired or sick; he groaned heavily and dragged himself with extreme difficulty through the snow.

Half the way down he stopped, leaned on his staff, and gazed fixedly at the lights.  Everything was so quiet, so dead and cold; one could not have helped thinking of will o’ the wisps in cemeteries.  At that moment the clock struck twelve in the tower; as the last stroke died slowly away, soft singing arose in the nearest house and, spreading from house to house, ran through the whole village: 

  A little babe, a worthy child,
    Was born to us today,
  Of Mary Virgin undefiled;
    We all rejoice and say: 
  Yea, had the Christ-child ne’er been born,
  To lasting woe we’d all been sworn,
    For He is our salvation. 
  O, thou our Jesus Christ adored,
    A man in form but yet our Lord,
  From Hell grant us Redemption.

The man on the mountain slope had sunk to his knees and with a trembling voice made an effort to join in the song; it turned into nothing but loud sobbing, and large hot drops fell on the snow.  The second verse began; he prayed along silently; then the third and the fourth.  The song was ended and the lights in the houses began to move.  Then the man rose laboriously and slunk slowly down to the village.  He panted past several houses, then stopped in front of one and knocked on the door softly.