We boys followed behind our fathers, and listened, catching all we could of what they said; and when they sat down in our house and continued their talk they still had us for company.  They were in a sad mood, for it was certain, they said, that disaster for the village must follow this awful visitation of witches and devils.  Then my father remembered that Father Adolf had been struck dumb at the moment of his denunciation.

“They have not ventured to lay their hands upon an anointed servant of God before,” he said; “and how they could have dared it this time I cannot make out, for he wore his crucifix.  Isn’t it so?”

“Yes,” said the others, “we saw it.”

“It is serious, friends, it is very serious.  Always before, we had a protection.  It has failed.”

The others shook, as with a sort of chill, and muttered those words over —­“It has failed.”  “God has forsaken us.”

“It is true,” said Seppi Wohlmeyer’s father; “there is nowhere to look for help.”

“The people will realize this,” said Nikolaus’s father, the judge, “and despair will take away their courage and their energies.  We have indeed fallen upon evil times.”

He sighed, and Wohlmeyer said, in a troubled voice:  “The report of it all will go about the country, and our village will be shunned as being under the displeasure of God.  The Golden Stag will know hard times.”

“True, neighbor,” said my father; “all of us will suffer—­all in repute, many in estate.  And, good God!—­”

“What is it?”

“That can come—­to finish us!”

“Name it—­um Gottes Willen!”

“The Interdict!”

It smote like a thunderclap, and they were like to swoon with the terror of it.  Then the dread of this calamity roused their energies, and they stopped brooding and began to consider ways to avert it.  They discussed this, that, and the other way, and talked till the afternoon was far spent, then confessed that at present they could arrive at no decision.  So they parted sorrowfully, with oppressed hearts which were filled with bodings.

While they were saying their parting words I slipped out and set my course for Marget’s house to see what was happening there.  I met many people, but none of them greeted me.  It ought to have been surprising, but it was not, for they were so distraught with fear and dread that they were not in their right minds, I think; they were white and haggard, and walked like persons in a dream, their eyes open but seeing nothing, their lips moving but uttering nothing, and worriedly clasping and unclasping their hands without knowing it.

At Marget’s it was like a funeral.  She and Wilhelm sat together on the sofa, but said nothing, and not even holding hands.  Both were steeped in gloom, and Marget’s eyes were red from the crying she had been doing.  She said: 

“I have been begging him to go, and come no more, and so save himself alive.  I cannot bear to be his murderer.  This house is bewitched, and no inmate will escape the fire.  But he will not go, and he will be lost with the rest.”