The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart with so fervent an outburst of love, that the edges of the monochal haircloth rubbed the Dominican’s breast.  And while Aser Abarbanel with protruding eyes gasped in agony in the ascetic’s embrace, vaguely comprehending that all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture, that of HOPE, the Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting: 

“What, my son!  On the eve, perchance, of salvation—­you wished to leave us?”

ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

The Owl’s Ear

On the 29th of July, 1835, Kasper Boeck, a shepherd of the little village of Hirschwiller, with his large felt hat tipped back, his wallet of stringy sackcloth hanging at his hip, and his great tawny dog at his heels, presented himself at about nine o’clock in the evening at the house of the burgomaster, Petrus Mauerer, who had just finished supper and was taking a little glass of kirchwasser to facilitate digestion.

This burgomaster was a tall, thin man, and wore a bushy gray mustache.  He had seen service in the armies of the Archduke Charles.  He had a jovial disposition, and ruled the village, it is said, with his finger and with the rod.

“Mr. Burgomaster,” cried the shepherd in evident excitement.

But Petrus Mauerer, without awaiting the end of his speech, frowned and said: 

“Kasper Boeck, begin by taking off your hat, put your dog out of the room, and then speak distinctly, intelligibly, without stammering, so that I may understand you.”

Hereupon the burgomaster, standing near the table, tranquilly emptied his little glass and wiped his great gray mustachios indifferently.

Kasper put his dog out, and came back with his hat off.

“Well!” said Petrus, seeing that he was silent, “what has happened?”

“It happens that the spirit has appeared again in the ruins of Geierstein!”

“Ha!  I doubt it.  You’ve seen it yourself?”

“Very clearly, Mr. Burgomaster.”

“Without closing your eyes?”

“Yes, Mr. Burgomaster—­my eyes were wide open.  There was plenty of moonlight.”

“What form did it have?”

“The form of a small man.”

“Good!”

And turning toward a glass door at the left: 

“Katel!” cried the burgomaster.

An old serving woman opened the door.

“Sir?”

“I am going out for a walk—­on the hillside—­sit up for me until ten o’clock.  Here’s the key.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the old soldier took down his gun from the hook over the door, examined the priming, and slung it over his shoulder; then he addressed Kasper Boeck: 

“Go and tell the rural guard to meet me in the holly path, and tell him behind the mill.  Your spirit must be some marauder.  But if it’s a fox, I’ll make a fine hood of it, with long earlaps.”