Escaped from Bendel’s affectionate oversight, I traversed in erring course woods and fields.  The perspiration of my agony dropped from my brow, a hollow groaning convulsed my bosom, madness raged within me.

I know not how long this had continued, when, on a sunny heath, I felt myself plucked by the sleeve.  I stood still and looked round—­it was the man in the gray coat, who seemed to have run himself quite out of breath in pursuit of me.  He immediately began: 

“I had announced myself for today, but you could not wait the time.  There is nothing amiss, however, yet.  You consider the matter, receive your shadow again in exchange, which is at your service, and turn immediately back.  You shall be welcome in the Forest-master’s garden; the whole has been only a joke.  Rascal, who has betrayed you, and who seeks the hand of your bride, I will take charge of; the fellow is ripe.”

I stood there as if in a dream.  “Announced for today?” I counted over again the time—­he was right.  I had constantly miscalculated a day.  I sought with the right hand in my bosom for my purse; he guessed my meaning, and stepped two paces backwards.

“No, Count, that is in too good hands, keep you that.”  I stared at him with eyes of inquiring wonder, and he proceeded:  “I request only a trifle, as memento.  You be so good as to set your name to this paper.”  On the parchment stood the words: 

“By virtue of this my signature, I make over my soul to the holder of this, after its natural separation from the body.”

I gazed with speechless amazement, alternately at the writing and the gray unknown.  Meanwhile, with a new-cut quill he had taken up a drop of blood which flowed from a fresh thorn-scratch on my hand and presented it to me.

“Who are you, after all?” at length I asked him.

“What does it matter?” he replied.  “And is it not plainly written on me?  A poor devil, a sort of learned man and doctor, who, in return for precious arts, receives from his friends poor thanks, and, for himself, has no other amusement on earth but to make his little experiments.—­But, however, sign.  To the right there—­PETER SCHLEMIHL.”

I shook my head, and said:  “Pardon me, sir, I do not sign that.”

“Not?” replied he, in amaze; “and why not?”

“It seems to me to a certain degree serious to stake my soul on a shadow.”

“So, so,” repeated he, “serious!” and he laughed almost in my face.  “And, if I might venture to ask, what sort of a thing is that soul of yours?  Have you ever seen it?  And what do you think of doing with it when you are dead?  Be glad that you have found an amateur who in your lifetime is willing to pay you for the bequest of this x, of this galvanic power, or polarized Activity, or what-ever-this silly thing may be, with something actual; that is to say, with your real shadow, through which you may arrive at the hand of your beloved and at the accomplishment of all your desires.  Will you rather push forth, and deliver up that poor young creature to that low bred scoundrel Rascal?  No, you must witness that with your own eyes.  Here, I lend you the magic-cap”—­he drew it from his pocket—­“and we will proceed unseen to the Forester’s garden.”