Master Petrus Mauerer and humble Kasper then went out.  The weather was superb, the stars innumerable.  While the shepherd went to knock at the rural guard’s door, the burgomaster plunged among the elder bushes, in a little lane that wound around behind the old church.

Two minutes later Kasper and Hans Goerner, whinger at his side, by running overtook Master Petrus in the holly path.

All three made their way together toward the ruins of Geierstein.

These ruins, which are twenty minutes’ walk from the village, seem to be insignificant enough; they consist of the ridges of a few decrepit walls, from four to six feet high, which extend among the brier bushes.  Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Seranus, the Roman camp of Holderlock, or vestiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy.  The only thing about these ruins which could be considered remarkable is a stairway to a cistern cut in the rock.  Inside of this spiral staircase, instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening.  Is it an architectural freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd construction?  It matters little to us.  The result was to cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path, murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words spoken by people passing the foot of the hill.

Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens of Hirschwiller.

“I see nothing,” the burgomaster would say, turning up his nose derisively.

“Nor I either,” the rural guard would repeat, imitating the other’s tone.

“It’s down in the hole,” muttered the shepherd.

“We shall see, we shall see,” returned the burgomaster.

It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon the opening of the cistern.  As I have said, the night was clear, limpid, and perfectly still.

The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon.  The blooming brier and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odor, and the frogs of a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem, interspersed with silences.  But all these details escaped the notice of our good rustics; they thought of nothing but laying hands on the spirit.

When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened, then gazed into the dark shadows.  Nothing appeared—­nothing stirred.

“The devil!” said the burgomaster, “we forgot to bring a bit of candle.  Descend, Kasper, you know the way better than I—­I’ll follow you.”

At this proposition the shepherd recoiled promptly.  If he had consulted his inclinations the poor man would have taken to flight; his pitiful expression made the burgomaster burst out laughing.