“That is not the only charge against you,” retorted one of the officials harshly.  “Your comrades, as well as the honourable Company of Foresters, accuse you of being in league with the enemy of mankind, and of procuring from him charmed bullets.”

The poacher laughed.  “It is false,” he cried, “They are jealous because I am such a good shot.  Provide me with a gun and with powder and shot blessed by a priest, and I will undertake to place through the vane of this tower nine shots which shall form the figure 9.”

“Such an opportunity shall be afforded you,” said one of the officials, who had not as yet spoken.  “It would be an injustice not to give you such a chance, especially as, if you are successful, you will remove the most odious portion of the charge against you.”

The news of the poacher’s challenge spread quickly through Frankfort, and even the foresters who had given evidence against him were so impressed that they forced their way into the council and insisted that, should he be successful, a free pardon should be granted to him.  To this the council agreed, and an intimation of the decision was conveyed to the poacher.  But he was assured that if one bullet missed its mark he would certainly die.  To this he agreed, and the succeeding day was fixed for the trial of skill.  At an early hour the square in which the tower was situated was thronged by an immense crowd.  The walls of the city, of which the tower was a part, were thronged by members of the Foresters’ Guild.  Soon the prisoner was led forth, and was publicly admonished by a monk not to tempt God if his skill had its origin in diabolic agencies.  But to all such exhortations the poacher replied:  “Fear not, I will write my answer upon yonder tower.”

The master of the Foresters’ Guild loaded the gun and handed it to him.  Amidst a deep silence he aimed at the vane and fired.  The shot found its mark.  Once more he fired.  Again the vane swung round, and another hole appeared therein.  The crowd vented its feelings by loud huzzahs.  Nine times did he fire, and nine times did the bullet hit its mark.  And as the last bullet sang through the weather-cock the figure 9 showed clearly therein, and the poacher, sinking to his knees, bared his head and gave thanks for his life to God.  All there, also, bared their heads and accompanied him in his thanksgiving.

That night, loaded with gifts, he quitted Frankfort, nevermore to return.  But the vane on the tower remains there to this day as a witness of his prowess with the long rifle.

The Knave of Bergen

The city of Frankfort was once the scene of a great coronation festival, during the course of which a bal masque was given by the King and Queen to a brilliant assembly of high-born ladies and nobles.  The knights and princes in their fancy costumes were hardly less resplendent than the ladies in their jewels and brocaded silks, and the masks they all wore added to the excitement and gaiety of the scene.  In all the gathering there was but one sombre note—­a knight in coal-black armour, visored, of great stature and stately in motion.  His graceful mien won the admiration of the ladies and the envy of the gallants, and the question of his identity excited much speculation.