The demon answers in person, and the reason of Caspar’s temptation of Max is made plain.  He has sold himself to the devil for the charmed bullets, the last of which had brought down the eagle, and the time for the delivery of his soul is to come on the morrow.  He asks a respite on the promise to deliver another victim into the demon’s hands,—­his companion Max.  What, asks the Black Huntsman, is the proffered victim’s desire?  The magical bullets.

  Sechse treffen,
  Sieben affen!

warns Samiel, and Caspar suggests that the seventh bullet be directed to the heart of the bride; her death would drive both lover and father to despair.  But Samiel says that as yet he has no power over the maiden; he will claim his victim on the morrow, Max or him who is already his bondsman.  Caspar prepares for the moulding.  The skull disappears, and in its place rises a small furnace in which fagots are aglow.  Ghostly birds, perched on the trees round about in the unhallowed spot, fan the fire with their wings.  Max appears on a crag on one side of the glen and gazes down.  The sights and sounds below affright him; but he summons up his courage and descends part way.  Suddenly his steps are arrested by a vision of his dead mother, who appears on the opposite side of the gulch and raises her hand warningly.  Caspar mutters a prayer for help to the fiend and bids Max look again.  Now the figure is that of Agathe, who seems about to throw herself into the mountain torrent.  The sight nerves him and he hurries down.  The moon enters into an eclipse, and Caspar begins his infernal work after cautioning Max not to enter the circle nor utter a word, no matter what he sees or who comes to join them.  Into the melting-pot Caspar now puts the ingredients of the charm:  some lead, bits of broken glass from a church window, a bit of mercury, three bullets that have already hit their mark, the right eye of a lapwing, the left of a lynx; then speaks the conjuration formula:—­

  Thou who roamst at midnight hour,
  Samiel, Samiel, thy pow’r! 
  Spirit dread, be near this night
  And complete the mystic rite. 
  By the shade of murderer’s dead,
  Do thou bless the charmed lead. 
  Seven the number we revere;
  Samiel, Samiel, appear!

The contents of the ladle commence to hiss and burn with a greenish flame; a cloud obscures the moon wholly, and the scene is lighted only by the fire under the melting-pot, the owl’s eyes, and the phosphorescent glow of the decaying oaks.  As he casts the bullets, Caspar calls out their number, which the echoes repeat.  Strange phenomena accompany each moulding; night-birds come flying from the dark woods and gather around the fire; a black boar crashes through the bushes and rushes through the glen; a hurricane hurtles through the trees, breaking their tops and scattering the sparks from the furnace; four fiery wheels roll by; the Wild Hunt dashes through the air; thunder, lightning, and hail fill the air, flames dart from the earth, and meteors fall from the sky; at the last the Black Hunter himself appears and grasps at Max’s hand; the forester crosses himself and falls to the earth, where Caspar already lies stretched out unconscious.  Samiel disappears, and the tempest abates.  Max raises himself convulsively and finds his companion still lying on the ground face downward.